Photo by Dan Welk
“Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them – if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.” – the teacher Antolini to the student Holden.
When describing a man so bereft of embellishment, it is of good instinct to follow suit. One such man, Robert Franklin “Bo” Ramsey, is an artistic embodiment of Roosevelt’s “Speak softly and carry a big stick; you will go far” ethic. For this consummate journeyman, the proverb has proven far more than rhetoric; commanding yet supportive, his presence can turn the supple to steel, and back again.
Born the same year Salinger offered us Catcher in the Rye, Ramsey has been both student and master during his journey into the roots, tragedies and joys of America’s musical forms. As a musician, his reputation is that of an uncommon artisan, who can part a song’s sea with one note. As a producer, he milks the distance between souvenir and statement until both are as one. To say these things is not to embellish, but to be factual. He is ornamental with sincerity, and he provides gravity without heavy hands. In conversation, his use of words such as ‘real’, ‘beautiful’, and ‘natural’ ring and repeat like ragas droning onward towards climax; often he accentuates the key word when unfurling his thoughts, again for climactic effect.
Much like the ronin that Mifune brought to life for Kurosawa, Bo Ramsey has been masterless for most of his career, yet remains bound in service to those closest to him. His first taste of musical brotherhood came during his nearly five years in the Mother Blues Band. Friends made during those years would prove to be brothers-in-arms for the rest of his life, including guitarist Joe Price and Patrick Hazell, the band’s co-founder, pianist and driving force; drummer Steve Hayes continues to drum alongside Ramsey to this day.
Leaving one band to form another, Ramsey started his own Backsliders, which included songwriter/guitarist Kevin Gordon at one point. As is often the case, the road started to leave Ramsey in disrepair, so he wound up working outside the craft for a while in the mid to late 80’s. In 1989, he began his most fruitful relationship, with legendary folk artist Greg Brown, one that continues to this day.
Then came the 90’s, where his work would land him in Lucinda Williams’entourage. Williams, the diva darling of the alt. country rodeo, stumbled across Ramsey’s sound half a world away at just the right time. Ramsey would provide taste and touch to her Grammy-winning smash hit Car Wheels On A Gravel Road (1998), followed by co-production on 2001’s Essence. The album featured his signature tremolo and spaciousness behind Williams’ Grammy victory for Best Female Rock Vocal Performance.
Departing from Williams’ band, he would step into the life of Pieta Brown, daughter of Greg, and a righteously talented singer/songwriter herself. Partners on and off stage, Bo and Pieta make for a potent dynamic, as evidenced by their summer stint opening Mark Knopfler’s American tour, then flying into Hoyas del Espino, Spain to help close his world tour in August.
Ramsey’s resume is stocked with interesting projects, a sampling of which includes work with indie sweetheart Ani Difranco, revered songstress Iris Dement, southwestern rockers Calexico, and international award-winning singer/songwriter Chad Elliott. Indeed, his resume is full of beautiful, reciprocal arrangements. But it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.
BF: You and Pieta Brown just opened the North American leg of Mark Knopfler’s tour. Was Mark familiar with Pieta and you beforehand?
BR: I don’t really know. There were a lot of submissions and he chose her, which was very complimentary to her. I work on her records, so I’m guessing he was somewhat familiar with my work. I don’t know, I didn’t ask. I do know that he chose her to open the shows for him.
BF: What was the experience like? What’s an average conversation like between Mark Knopfler and Bo Ramsey, for instance?
BR: There was a lot of conversation. Daily. It was very normal...
BF: People tend to forget that their heroes are just normal people.
BR: Right. He’s a great musician that we all know about. But he’s really a terrific human being, and just cool. We did a lot of hanging out and talking. We talked about the kids and family, we talked about music, we talked about guitars and amplifiers. [Just a] normal kind of conversation between a couple of guitar players, you know?
It was a pure pleasure doing the shows with Mark Knopfler and his band. Truly inspirational, high-level stuff, across the board. One thing I learned listening to Mark is that he is not only a great singer/songwriter and musician, but also a great composer.
BF: Let’s go back to your beginnings, which was the blues. You are from Burlington, Iowa, which is fairly rural. Your father was a guitar player, but when did the interest come to you?
BR: The interest came from listening to music. The music that I heard back then was Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, and then, of course, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, that whole thing. I was just in junior high school, so I got caught up in all of that. Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix…. it was a very explosive time, very powerful, musically.
All of that stuff was on AM radio. You would hear Marvin Gaye, and then you would hear Bob Dylan, and then you would hear the Rolling Stones. It was a terrific time to be a part of. I heard that stuff and it was very powerful. It moved me to pick up the guitar. My dad had this guitar laying around. He had since quit playing, but I picked up that guitar and started banging on it. I was probably sixteen or seventeen.
BF: So in some ways, you actually started as an adult.
BR: And actually I did. I was just goofing around then, I didn’t really know what I was doing. I remember trying to pick out “Folsom Prison Blues”- Johnny Cash with Luther Perkins on the guitar, [doing] that low down thing.
And then I tried playing Bob Dylan songs, stuff like that. I was always moved by all that was going on around me. And then I got to be in college and about twenty years old, that’s when I really discovered blues music and that really had a big impact on me. That got me really playing, really thinking about the guitar and music more seriously.
BF: Was there someone in your life who was influential in that time, or was it just around and it caught your ear?
BR: Yeah, just hanging around. Everybody was listening to music, playing records, and it was the center of social activities. Like, “Hey, let’s listen to this record”, and we’d sit down and listen to a record. I remember going over to a guy’s place and he put a Muddy Waters record on, and I just remember standing there, looking down at the record going around, and I couldn’t believe the sound coming out of it. And I thought “Oh my God, what was that?” I almost didn’t know if I liked it, you know? It was so kind of…
BF: Different?
BR: Yeah, it was different and it was very striking. And then, you know, it wasn’t too long before I couldn’t get enough of it.
BF: Then, between 1974 and 1978, you were in the Mother Blues Band. Once you joined the band, (guitarist) Joe Price and (pianist) Pat Hazell helped develop your love for the blues and you seemed to grow up together.
BR: Absolutely.
BF: Post-Woodstock, what was it like to be a group of predominantly white guys doing an urban music in the heartland of America?
BR: Well, it seemed all very natural, working with Pat Hazell and Joe Price. Joe Price was deeply into the country blues, like Son House, Robert Johnson, Mississippi John Hurt, Mississippi Fred McDowell, that whole kind of thing. And then Pat Hazell brought a really kind of wide [perspective] to things, being into blues and then also free-form jazz.
Those two guys are definitely two of my main influences. It was just a wonderful time and really wide open. Pat Hazell had a rehearsal space, and sometimes we would play for hours on end, and sometimes not even name a key- just play. You just don’t hear that [today]... I mean, the jamband thing, maybe I can relate to, because that’s what we did back then. I mean we would just jam for hours on end, for days on end.
BF: That’s the same way the Allman Brothers started, what you just described. A very communal thing.
BR: Absolutely. It was all about the music. It was all very natural. Blues music was kind of a common ground, it was a place for us to start, to kind of build on. And it made sense to me. So, we loved that music and we played it in a kind of way we wanted to.
BF: Moving forty years forward, the music industry and narrow-minded ‘fans’ have put labels and boundaries into place regarding ‘the blues’. Back then, it seems as though there wasn’t as much segregation between styles, and I don’t think people can’t easily grasp that.
BR: I consider myself a musician. Music is a big, wide, beautiful place, and that’s my deal. I’m not a businessman, so labels, that’s someone else’s deal. But we got into that music because we loved it, and we loved it deeply, and still do. It’s still a constant source of inspiration for me. And we started to write songs, kind of individually and together, and it was all kind of based on that. Kind of like, let’s say, The Rolling Stones. They started out playing Muddy Waters songs, Bo Diddley songs, and then they started to write songs, and they all kind of came out of that place. And then you had ‘The Rolling Stones.’
The music, I think, that stands the test of time- Bob Dylan, Hank Williams, The Rolling Stones, Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers- there’s blues in it. Miles Davis… it doesn’t matter what category. These are real musicians, so they’re open to a lot of things, and I think that blues is essential to great music.
BF: You saw both Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf in the flesh- did the blues lose something along the way, perhaps once the music went to Britain and the British rock bands sold us back the blues?
BR: I think that whole British thing was cool, you know? These guys loved that music, just like I did. The fact that they started playing it, and reintroduced it to that generation of listeners, was a beautiful thing, because that music is important.
I think just being open and doing your homework is important. It’s important to be aware of what came before you. And I think there’s a lot of great stuff that came before us [laughs]... like, really good. I always say that I try and keep one ear listening to things that came before me, and then I have an ear open to things now. I try and keep my ears wide open, and I love all kinds of music. But I think that blues thing… it’s just real. It’s real people singing about real life. It’s essential and fundamental.
It’s like… we should stop and think about tearing down a building that’s been there for a long, long time, [and then] you put up a piece of crap. You should really stop and really think about it. It’s kind of like that with music. You should pay attention and listen to what came before.
BF: You use the word ‘real’ often. We live in an age of overstatement, where words like ‘genius’ and ‘authentic’ and ‘real’ get thrown around handily. When someone asks you to produce them, they’re looking for the qualities you’re known for. So, in essence, how do you “keep it real”? How do you prepare an environment where something ‘real’ can come about?
BR: Well, I’m a big fan of capturing a performance on tape, or whatever it is now. If someone asks me to produce, or co-produce a record, I just try and get that artist comfortable, find out where they want to work, and make them comfortable so they can perform. And then I like to try and get a performance out of an artist; cut everything, one take, full band.
I don’t what kind of music you listen to, but my favorite records are live performances. The great blues stuff like Little Walter, Muddy Waters…
I just read this thing about Tom Petty and his new record (_Mojo_]. He did it that way. It’s a great piece of work. He did it in his rehearsal space, live off the floor, with no overdubs. Everything was cut live. To me, there’s nothing greater than capturing a live performance. If everybody feels good about it, you capture something that’s special.
There’s a lot of ways to make records, you know? Get a drum machine and build it from there. There’s some good recordings done [that way], but when I put something on and listen to it, I love listening to performances. So, I always try and go for that. I don’t always get it, but I always try and go for that.
BF: When you’re listening to music, it’s obvious that it’s a true experience for you. Do you think that these days, where people are so accustomed to “music as noise” constantly bombarding them, that people have forgotten how to listen?
BR: Well, it could be… There’s so much occupying their airways. There’s so much information going around now, that I think a lot of people’s ears are just shut down. It’s just like overload.
The introduction of ProTools, I’m not so convinced it’s such a good deal. Everybody’s making records in their house, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. But ProTools, you can do almost anything with it. You can auto-tune something that’s out of tune; you can put this in, instead of that. A lot of what I hear today, a lot of ‘modern’, contemporary music, sounds like it came out of a computer. It doesn’t even sound like real people in a room, playing and singing. It sounds like a computer spit it out or something. I hear a lot of that, and I’m not a big fan of that. It doesn’t stir up any emotion in me. I put on Muddy Waters singing “You Can’t Lose What You Ain’t Never Had”, or Marvin Gaye singing “Trouble Man”, I get chills. That’s where it’s at for me, some real people singing about something that they care about.
There’s nothing wrong with pop music, [it’s] like… functional pottery. I can appreciate functional pottery, but it’s not sculpture, you know what I’m saying? I’ll drink out of a glass that somebody made and you can drink out of. It serves a function, and that’s great. But, then it’s not sculpture. You look at a really great sculpture, and you’re moved. It affects you emotionally.
BF: Some of Muddy Waters’ best-selling, highest-regarded albums were produced by Johnny Winter, a great guitarist and producer who totally loved and understood the artist he was producing. Do you think good musicians make better records than non-musicians?
BR: Not necessarily. That’s a good question. I don’t really know. I’m not familiar with all the producers out there, but I think most of them probably play something. “Producing” is a very wide title. I know there are some producers who just come in and run the session. There’s producers that just sit back and are a sounding board for the artists. They’ve listened and maybe they’ve thrown out some ideas. Then there are guys who are hands on the board, get really involved, and have a ‘sound’. Then there’s producers who play in the session. They’re inside of the music.
There’s a lot of different ways. Myself, I’m a player, so I offer that up. Some times I play, sometimes I don’t. I produced a record When the Devil Goes Blind that just came out in July by a guy named Charlie Parr, who is out of Duluth, Minnesota. That was really an enjoyable project. I didn’t play one note, and I enjoyed it as much as playing a session. What I try and do is serve the song. The song is really king. If you listen close to the song, it will tell you, it will guide you.
BF: “Serve the song” is another overstated phrase, but it’s a lifestyle for you. When you go into a session, what do you key into in order to ‘serve the song’? Lyrics? The music?
BR: It’s all of it. The music is big. So much comes out of the music. I try and do everything I can to get the artist’s vision on tape. Now, every artist is different. Some writers, like Greg Brown for example, he hears the songs before he writes them. It’s stunning… it’s a true gift. Pieta Brown, the same thing. She hears the songs, and then writes them [grins].
Lucinda Williams told me one time, “There ain’t very many of us.” And if you listen closely, she’s right. There’s not very many real songwriters. Greg Brown is one, so is Pieta. Real songwriters, they hear it. So, when I work with an artist like that, I just say “What are you hearing?”, and they have a lot to say. So we go from there, if I’m working with an artist like that. And then I work with artists who don’t hear ‘it’, as much.
BF: It’s more of a seed, then you grow it?
BR: Yeah. Like, Lucinda Williams for example. I was sitting at her table and we were playing, and I said, “Now, OK, you just went to the four there.” And she goes “Don’t talk to me about that four and that five and all that. I don’t know anything about that. [I was like] “Wow… okay.”
BF: We are in an age where the Big Studios could become a thing of the past fairly soon. People are self-recording much more, as you’ve already noted. Why do artists still need producers?
BR: I think ‘producers’- a lot of that has gone away. I was producing records, and then all of a sudden, I wasn’t. Now, it’s kinda coming back around, and I think it’s because it’s important for an artist to have somebody that they respect, to just be able to bounce ideas off of. Or have a producer throw ideas at them, or just to open things up and get some ideas flowing.
BF: I know you are trying to make the artist comfortable, but how much of the process is challenging them as well? Say, they like a take, but to your ears, it’s not the one.
BR: Well, ok, you have to speak up. You have to challenge the artist sometimes. I think getting the artist comfortable is just environment; if they’re aware of studios, [and say] “I really like this studio”, then it’s ok, we’ll go there. Or just say, “How about this place? I did some work in here, and I think you’ll really like it.” So you challenge them in that way. I remember when I worked with Lucinda. We had looked at Ardent Studios in Memphis, House of Blues in Memphis, we went to Jim Dickinson’s trailer and spent a day with him. It was all great.
I said “Well, I’m gonna throw something on the table. I’ve done a lot of work with this studio in Minneapolis. I think it’s great, and I think you might really like it. It’s got all the goods, it’s comfortable, the engineer is world-class.” She kinda took my word, and that’s what we did. And we ended up recording there.
BF: You get good tone. Many albums anymore don’t have good tone. What can be done to bring back good tone?
BR: Turn the compressors down, for one thing. I’m not a big fan of compression, but that’s what I hear a lot of these days. A lot of records are over-compressed. And tone, I think, is all about good musicians, playing in a good room, with good microphones. Good players in a good sounding room… the room is big. It’s a big deal. And that’s why those big studios were built. ‘Cause there’s some amazing rooms, [and] I’ve worked in a few of ‘em.
In fact, I’m going to one to make a Greg Brown record, and it’s no longer a studio. It’s an engineering school [Minneapolis Media Institute, owned by Essence co-producer Tom Tucker and Dick McCalley], just out of necessity. The guy had to make a living, you know? It’s not a studio anymore. But at one time it was called Flyte Tyme, which a lot of big records came out of. He’s making arrangements for us to record there, and I’m really looking forward to it, because it’s amazing. It’s designed by Glenn Phoenix, one of the great studio designers in the world. You just go in there and it’s an amazing space, and it just sounds so good. It’s designed to sound good. If you read an interview with T-Bone Burnett, or Daniel Lanois, or any of these producers, they talk a lot about the room.
BF: That’s why they use a small, revolving set of studios.
BR: Absolutely. They’re great sounding rooms. And that’s how you make great sounding records. And tone is one of my favorite words in the English language. It’s just a great sounding word, and it really matches the meaning. And I love hearing things that sound good.
BF: You’ve worked in many genres, with many levels of musicians. What’s the best advice you could give readers on how to improve their sound?
BR: Good tone can mean nasty and dirty, or clean and pretty.
BF: Elmore James.
BR: Good tone! Robert Nighthawk. Great tone. It can mean a lot of different things. I remember this one guy who had a band and I didn’t know them. They came in and we went to work. And I was working with the guitar player a little bit, and I thought, maybe I could offer a few different ideas to get a better guitar sound, If I hear something back and I think “Man, the guy’s playing great, but the sound is not great”, then maybe I’ll offer up some options. That’s what I’ve always worked really hard [at]. I’m a guitar player, so I try and get good tone myself. I’ve studied the gear, the guitars; I work hard at exploring all that.
After doing the Knopfler thing, both Mark and his guitar player, Richard Bennett, were playing Tone King Amps. [Of Bennett] I’m a big fan, he’s an amazing musician. And I’m like “What’s up with these Tone Kings, boys? Fill me in!” [laughs] So we were in DC, and the Tone Kings are made in Baltimore, and the guy came out during sound check and was talking to Mark and Richard. Anyway, I had to get with the fellas and get a Tone King [laughs].
BF: Let’s talk about the two albums you made with Lucinda Williams, Grammy-winning projects Car Wheels On A Gravel Road and Essence.
BR: I played guitar on Car Wheels, only overdubs. Steve Earle produced that album, so I worked with him and I just played on a couple of songs. There was a lot of people on that record. I think the main guitar player was Buddy Miller. Kenny Vaughan was in the touring band behind that record. And that was great, working with Kenny. Great player.
I played guitar and co-produced Essence with Lucinda, Tom Tucker, and Charlie Sexton.
BF: She heard your first album while in New Zealand of all places. That must have been an ‘out of the blue’ call.
BR: Yes, it was. She got my number from a guy in New Zealand, ‘cause I had toured in New Zealand, behind that record, which was called Down to Bastrop. Then, three months later or so, she toured Australia, and did one show in Auckland, New Zealand on her way to Australia. And she was hosted by the same guy who hosted me when I toured over there. He had a record store she went into after the show. She was getting ready to leave to go to Australia and there were some CD’s laying on the floor of the record store. And she goes “What is that?” and pointed to my record. He picked it up, and said “Why don’t you take this with you?” She told that when she got home after the tour, she put my record on, and liked it, got a hold of the guy in New Zealand and asked for my number.
And I can remember coming home one night after one of those turf gigs around here, four in the morning and my answering machine was flashing, so I hit it and there was a message from Lucinda Williams. Saying [in a voice similar to Lucinda’s] “I got yer record and I really like it, and I’m in Los Angeles, and you can call me if you want”. So I called her up, had a nice conversation with her.
BF: Were you familiar with her work at that point?
BR: Yeah. I had heard a record of hers, and thought it was great. But I didn’t know her, I’d never met her or anything. So, it was a real special relationship because it came through the music. One of the beauties good music is that it brings people together. It’s a beautiful thing. I was really into that, because it was purely for the music. And I thought this was good.
She was also in the process of moving from Austin to Nashville, and I just happened to be going to Nashville in a few weeks, at that time, to work with a buddy of mine, Kevin Gordon, who had just moved there. He had asked me to come down and play guitar with him on some gigs. I went down there and I met Lucinda. That’s how we met.
BF: What were some of the more ‘uncommon’ highlights of being with Lucinda?
BR: Well, with Lucinda, there was a lot of… “all of it” [laughs]. I think with her, just playing those great songs every night was a real treat for me. She’s such a great songwriter. Just playing those songs every night [is] what I think I carry with me.
And then there were some great nights. Emmylou [Harris] sittin’ in- they sang together and it was just, like, otherworldly. One night in New York, all of a sudden I’m standing next to Jimmie Vaughan, and we’re playing and Lucinda’s singing. Just great fun. Then Elvis Costello jumped up one night. [Lucinda’s] talking to the crowd and somebody hollers back, and it’s Elvis, and all of a sudden he’s on stage.
One night I remember, we were in San Diego; we finished playing and I ran out the back door to have a smoke and I’m back out there by the tour buses. I see this guy come out, and he sees me, comes over, he was looking for me. It was Bill Murray.
So, working with Lu was interesting. I met a lot of fine people during that time, had a lot of great musical experiences. We played the Ryman Theater in Nashville, and Emmylou had jumped up and sang with Lu. And then doing Essence with her, with Jim Keltner on drums.
BF: How did you know it was time to leave Lucinda’s band?
BR: There was a lot of reasons I left. It seemed like ‘the time’. One thing I wanted to do with Lu was, I wanted to tour behind the release of Essence. I wanted to be there for her, tour behind that, and I did. The record came out fairly early in 2001, and then we toured until the end of that year, and then she took a considerable amount of time off, and I thought that’s probably about right. It felt right to me, it was time to move on.
And that kind of touring maybe didn’t agree with me all the way, the whole full-on, major label, tour bus, grueling, touring. Everything I’d done up to that time was runnin’ and gunnin’ with my mates. With Greg Brown, the two of us will get on a plane or rent a big car, throw our stuff in and go do three or four shows, and come home. I think I’m more comfortable doing that. I have family and everything, [and] when you’re out there slamming like Lu was doing, doing that major label thing, it’s grueling, man. It takes you away from your home.
There’s road guys, like hard-core road guys. They’re a certain kind of player, and I’m maybe not that. And there are players that can do that gig, they can play anything that you want, they can do it. You say “Play this” and they play that. And, I’m not really [good] at that. But I wanted to do that for Lu, and I did, and I felt good about it. It was not an easy decision to make. I had three kids at the time; there was a lot going on not only in my work, but in my life, and I just felt like I had to do what I had to do.
BF: Along those lines- sometimes musicians seem to ‘give up the ghost’ and move on to different things. Is there still something mysterious after all these years that keeps you coming back?
BR: Oh… the music. The music is so beautiful and mysterious… it’s all about the music.
BF: Why do you think some people lose that?
BR: Well, life is a big thing, and there’s a lot more to life than music. We’re so blessed to have music in this life. It would really be a bland place without it. It would be really pretty bleak, to my eye and ear. I’m sure every person has their reasons. You know, I mentioned Tom Petty just put this new record, out and he’s as vibrant now as he was thirty years ago. It’s inspiring. BB King is still doing 150 shows a year, and he’s 85 years old. Bob Dylan’s still out touring. He goes out for six to eight weeks at a time. You just have to take your hat off and say I have tremendous respect for him as an artist.
Some people are just in for the long haul, and others aren’t, and it’s OK. Life’s a big deal, and some people put their all into [music], and that’s their life, and that’s what they do, and that’s great. And there’s other people who have hung it up, maybe run dry, who like music and play it for a while and then they move on to something else. And that’s OK, too.
BF: One of your greatest joys must be playing with Pieta Brown, who is also your wife. How special is it to share your life and your work with the same person, much like Derek Trucks & Susan Tedeschi, or Buddy & Julie Miller?
BR: Oh my God… I can hardly put words on that. The thing with Pieta and I is that we have a deep musical connection. We love a lot of the same music, and we have a similar kind of sensibility, so therefore, we work really well together. It’s [the same] with Greg Brown. There again, we are on the same page. We understand each other, we love a lot of the same music, communicate well. There’s a deep connection.
With Lucinda, there was a deep connection, the music brought us together, and there’s a real similar thing with Pieta. She’s a great artist and we have a deep connection. Like Joe Price and I- we have a deep connection. Steve Hayes, a drummer that I’ve worked with for thirty years, we have a deep connection.
It’s like that “chemistry” thing, I love hearing “chemistry”. I just did the Winnipeg Folk Festival, and Jorma Kaukonen was there with Jack Casady. This was the first time I’d heard them live, and to hear that chemistry was just beautiful. Or you listen to the Rolling Stones, and it’s that band. Or U2- I’m not a huge fan of that music, but I’m a big fan of that chemistry. It’s like these guys together are greater than the sum of the parts. I love that. That’s what it is with Pieta, or Joe Price or Lucinda Williams- whoever the people are that I’ve come in contact with and connected with deeply, musically.
BF: You brought up Greg Brown. In 1989, you co-produced and played guitar on Greg’s One Big Town, which marked a new beginning in music for you. Around that time you were also working a factory job. What was that time in your life like?
BR: I did [the factory job] for the music. I was never out; it was something I had to do to stay in it. I wanted to pull myself back as far as I could. A band I was in had dissolved, and I thought “I have to get clear of this”. And I went to work in a factory. I knew I was going to walk out of there. It was thirteen months later. I didn’t think it would be that long [laughs].
I did that very purposefully. I needed to recharge my batteries, and I needed to get a different angle on [things]. And I just needed to get with my wife. I was married at the time and had a kid, and I just needed to get centered. I knew it was an important time just for myself, and my family at the time. I just knew I had to take a real break and get my feet square on the ground.
So, it was about that time that I heard Greg on the radio. I remember that I was thinking about him, and I turned the radio on, and on this frickin’ thing… there he was, and I thought, “Oh my God.” I was just thinking about him and his music. I didn’t really know him at the time. I was driving and thinking about him, and then I turned on the radio and there he was. I didn’t change the channel or anything.
I didn’t think I could take his songs to a different level or anything like that. I just thought that maybe his songs could potentially have a wider sonic scope. I did think that maybe I could bring something to this. I didn’t think anything about the results of that. I didn’t know anything. All I knew was that this guy was really good, and he was speaking to me.
I remember walking into The Mill [a favorite Iowa City haunt for roots, folk and jamband music afficionados] years ago and I didn’t know who was playing. I asked someone and they said “Oh, that’s Greg Brown” and he was up there and had his head down, and wasn’t even looking at the crowd, and I thought “I could play with that guy”. You could just hear it in the music.
So, it was just speaking to me from a distance. I went and I called him up. He was aware of me, but we didn’t know each other, ‘cause we ran in different circles. I was a band guy, he was a folk guy, but we eventually hooked up, and it’s been an amazing relationship.
BF: What has Greg brought to you as an artist?
BR: [laughs] He’s just the real deal. He’s one of America’s finest songwriters, no questions about it. He’s taught me so much, it’s amazing. For one thing, every time I take the stage with him, from back then ‘til today, it’s a challenge playing with him, ‘cause you don’t know what’s coming. Ever [laughs]... it’s hard to talk about all this stuff, but he’s such a good musician. When you hear people talk about Greg Brown, they talk about his songwriting. But he’s an incredible musician.
BF: For musicians who truly love the fingerstyle tradition, he is amazing.
BR: Check it out, man. To this day, I stand on the right side of him so I can look at that left hand. And even then, he’ll play chord shapes- like, he’ll play a D, and I’ll go “What is that?” Well, it’s a D chord, and it does not look like your traditional D chord. And he’s constantly challenging me. Therefore, I’ve grown so much as a player from playing with Greg Brown. It’s just been an education, and continues to be.
His wealth of knowledge is staggering. It’s stunning. Stunning. Not only the amount of songs he’s written, which is staggering, but the amount of songs that he knows is unbelievable. It never ceases to amaze me. Sometimes, we’ll be on stage and he’ll do a song that I’ve never heard him do- ever, and I’ve been working with him for twenty plus years. I don’t know if he has like a photographic memory, but he can hear something, and he just [remembers it perfectly].
I met Bob Dylan, and I played music with him, for one day, all day long. And I remember when I came away from that day with Bob, we played a lot of songs. Not just Bob Dylan songs, but a lot of songs I’d never even heard before. And he sang every word. At one point, we sang “O Come, All Ye Faithful”, and he sang every verse. I don’t know how many verses are in that song, but there’s a lot- maybe fifteen, and he sang every one of them. And I just know that there’s a whole lot more that we didn’t do.
And I came away from that and I thought to myself that the only other person I can even put in that league, just as far as knowledge, is Greg Brown.
BF: That’s mighty high praise. Let’s talk about your own guitar style, particularly your slide playing. Outside of the well-known blues legends, I can pick out George Harrison. Who else comes through?
BR: For slide guitar playing? Joe Price. I remember way back when I first met Joe, he was playing slide, and I wouldn’t even attempt it. So Joe turned me on to open-tuning the guitar, putting the slide on, and fundamentally what you could do. Joe is an inspiration for me, since day one ‘til this day. [He’s] unbelievable, man, and I think he’s great. He was a constant source of inspiration for me, and still is. Joe and I talk on the phone for hours. We try not to go on too much, ‘cause it’ll run my phone bill up, but Joe is a really big influence and introduced me to slide guitar. I owe a lot to him.
Muddy Waters. Robert Nighthawk- I thought he had such a beautiful touch. Mick Taylor.
BF: That’s a great pick.
BR: Just his vibrato… his voice… just beautiful. George Harrison; it’s just so him. You hear George Harrison play slide, you know it’s George Harrison. It’s beautiful man, it’s so unique, his choice of notes, just brilliant. There’s a guy, a dear friend of mine, name Kelly Joe Phelps. He’s not even playing slide anymore- I don’t understand it, but it’s true. One of the very best slide guitarists I’ve ever heard. Played it in his lap, but truly a beautiful player. Very musical, very inventive choice of notes, stunningly beautiful. There’s a couple of slide solos on my record, In The Weeds, that Kelly played. One of ‘em is on a song called “Precious” and the other is called “King of Clubs”, and that’s Kelly Jo Phelps playing the little solos. Beautiful work. Also, Blind Willie Johnson, Earl Hooker, David Lindley and Mississippi Fred McDowell are influences.
And then, you know what… I remember being really touched by Wayne Shorter. I saw Weather Report one time in Iowa City. I remember they came out and it was so loud. Years later, I played that stage, and understood that it was an extremely sensitive stage. I played through a little bitty amp on like, 2, and it worked. I think it was built for acoustic music or theatre. But electric instruments in there is an extremely delicate thing. But I remember Weather Report in there and they overplayed it. During that performance, each guy did a solo section, in the band with Jaco Pastorius, they took a turn by themselves playing and they each did their thing.
And then Wayne Shorter did his thing, and the first thing he did was walk away from the microphone and he just ‘sang’ his solo into the mic. He was ten feet away from any mic, and I was so struck by that. I thought to myself that this was a serious musician here. And then I began to listen to him. I remember hearing a Joni Mitchell record and Wayne Shorter was a guest artist on that record. He took a solo on a song- I don’t remember which album or song right now, but it was so beautifully played. His choice of notes [was] very economical. This guy can play anything, but in this solo, there weren’t many notes, and they were so beautifully played. Talk about “serving the song”- it all goes back to that. But I remember being really influenced by hearing Wayne Shorter. His taste, sense of economy, serving the song, and his choice of notes.
You hear people talk about a song or a solo- “there’s a beginning, a middle and an end.”- about making a statement. But then you hear Andy Summers who would do these anti-solos. There’d be a solo section and there’s just like a sound that just goes [on]. And it’s perfect; there was just a sound, and it worked. So I thought, “OK, there’s a lot of ways to work at this.” We should think about this, and not just blow a whole bunch of notes. Think about it. Stop and listen. I think with Wayne Shorter doing that, that night, I thought that [he] was really listening. He pulled away from the microphone in order to listen to the room. By doing that, he played ‘music’ to the people in that space. I’ll never forget it.
