Do You Like American Music?

There aren't really that many styles of music that are strictly American. As young a country as America is when compared to other parts of the world, it seems that everything, even things as seemingly American as jazz and rock and roll, have origins elsewhere. Bluegrass music is an exception. Inspired by the music of Appalachia, which itself admittedly draws from Scottish and Irish sources, bluegrass music requires its musicians to be both talented and resourceful.

I've been a fan of bluegrass since I first stumbled across the genre as a teenager. I was flipping around on TV, and came upon David Grisman performing on the local PBS station. The way he played his mandolin was hypnotic, and I was an instant fan.

If I needed a unit of measure to gauge how many other folk here in the Lowcountry enjoy bluegrass, then I found it last month at the first annual Charleston Bluegrass Festival. Put on by the folks who run the Surf Bar on Folly Beach, the Sewee Outpost in Awendaw, and Awendaw Green, this first event of its kind attracted more than 1,000 people over its two days, April 6 and 7. While billed as a bluegrass festival, the event featured more than just that style of music. The lineup featured not just local acts such as Hit or Miss, Jordan Igoe, and The South Carolina Broadcasters, but also regional performers such as Town Mountain, The Mosier Brothers, and Angel Snow.

To say that the inaugural Charleston Bluegrass Festival was a success would be an understatement. Sure, 1,000 people doesn't sound like a lot at first, but when you consider the fact that this festival was a grass roots effort on just about every level, and happened on a Friday and Saturday after a pretty major thunderstorm earlier in the week, then it's an impressive number indeed. The folks that came out to enjoy the music definitely got their money's worth, and it was a family friendly affair, with gaggles of kids (including two of my own) running everywhere. If you didn't attend the event and needed any further validation as to the festival's success, the photos included here ought to do the trick. I'm already looking forward to next year's edition.

Don't You Know That You Are A Shooting Star...

Ah, American Idol. It's like a high school talent competition on steroids. No, really, that's exactly what it's like...except maybe for the television cameras...and the high dollar production values...and the even higher dollar advertising revenues. Okay, so maybe it isn't quite like a high school talent show, but while I've been aware of it's existence since Kelly Clarkson won the first season, I've never before followed the competition in earnest until this season. Oh sure, I've watched the first few episodes of each season to view the freak show that parades before the judges before things get serious, but aside from Clarkson and Carrie Underwood, I'd be hard pressed to name any of the winners. Honestly, the only reason I am able to readily recall Clarkson's name is because Steve Carell screams it out while having his chest waxed in the film "The 40 Year-Old Virgin."

But this season I'm actually emotionally involved. The reason? Local artist Elise Testone is a contestant. Not only is she a contestant, but at the moment this is being written she is one of only seven contestants left. I don't pretend to be Testone's friend. I've interviewed her for the local paper here in Charleston and I've seen her perform a couple of times around town. She's very talented and very dedicated to her music, often going from teaching music in Mt. Pleasant to a performing gig at a local bar or restaurant. She works her butt off, and that's why it is so satisfying to see her still in the race on American Idol. Sure, she has her age working against her (which sounds absurd, as Testone is only in her mid-twenties), and there are some genuinely talented folks competing against her, but I sincerely believe that Testone has a chance of winning the whole shooting match. Even if you're like me and have never watched American Idol, I urge you to watch these last few weeks, and also to vote for Testone. She's come close to elimination the last coupe of weeks, but turned in a solid performance this week. She's put in years of hard work and it is all culminating in this moment. Here's hoping Elise goes all the way to an American Idol win and all of the benefits that brings.

I Love Rock N' Roll

For me, the true test of a band is how well they sound live. Just about anyone can be made to sound like a talented singer in the studio, thanks to tools like auto tune and the like. Some performers even use pre-recorded music during their live shows. Often the defense for that curious practice is that the artist in question's performance features intricate dance numbers, and the recordings allow them to not sound out of breath while executing those feats of choreography. To that I say either increase the daily cardio workouts until you can both sing and dance at the same time for real, or else can the dancing. I came to hear you sing. I did not buy your album and tickets to your show because you're a badass dancer.

I've seen hundreds of live shows over the years. Some have proven to be unforgettable, while others I'd like to forget, but my love of live music can be traced back to one unforgettable moment in 1983, when I attended my first live show.

I was in seventh grade, and my family had just moved to Charleston, SC from San Diego, CA after my father accepted a new job. Back in those days the premiere rock station in town was 95SX (WSSX), which nowadays plays, well, I'll be honest; it probably plays the same sort of music to which I'd be listening to if I were 12 years old now rather than then. So while listening to the radio one morning the deejays (Andrea Vincent and Steve Cochran...wow, can't believe I remember that after 30 years...) announced that they were giving tickets to the upcoming Joan Jett and The Blackhearts show to whatever caller they used back then. I jumped on the phone and started dialing. I'd done this before, and had collected such prizes as a giant cookie from the mall, and a genuine, authentic "Where's the Beef?" kit from Wendy's, the t-shirt from which I wore proudly for the next several years, long after that iconic 80's TV ad had stopped airing. More often than not though I got a busy signal. This time though, the phone rang. "Hello, you're caller (whatever caller they used back then)!" I gave them my info and then hung up. I'd just won tickets to a Joan Jett concert. My first move was to ask if I could go. After all, I was twelve, we lived in Mt. Pleasant, and the show was at County Hall (later the King Street Palace, now low cost apartments) on upper King St. downtown. Miraculously, my parents said yes, provided I took my little sister. Sure, fine, whatever. Keep in mind that this was 1983, back before the dangers of society made it impossible to let your children out of your sight. We used to go trick-or-treating alone too. Heck, back in San Diego I'd walked to and from school alone in first grade. No way in hell I'd let my kids do any of that today, but like I said, these are different times.

I honestly had no idea what to expect in the two weeks leading up to the big night. No one else in my seventh-grade class had ever been to a rock concert, so I was enjoying a bit of celebrity status at school once word got around. When the evening of the show came, I decided that since this was a special occasion I would first shower (like any other 12 year old boy, water was my enemy in those days), then get dressed for the show. I figured since it was a cultural event that I should probably dress up. I put on an oxford button down shirt and a pair of slacks, but decided to leave out the necktie. After all, this was rock and roll. My father dropped my little sister (who is a year younger than me) and I off at the venue, and after having our tickets ripped, walked into the hall.

For those of you who never got to experience an event at County Hall, it was your basic auditorium, with a small lobby, a wide-open main floor, a large stage at the opposite end of the building from the lobby, and a second floor balcony that wrapped around the three sides of the building away from the stage. When my sister and I walked into the main floor area, it was...well, you know how in a movie there will be a scene where there's a crowded party with music playing, and something happens that stops the action, and they insert the sound effect of a phonograph needle being whipped off a record? Yeah, that's pretty much what happened when we walked in. Of course, there wasn't really any record scratching noise, but I clearly heard it in my head. Why, you ask? Well, every other one of the several hundred Joan Jett fans in attendance was dressed like any normal person would dress for a rock concert. I'm talking t-shirts, jeans, miniskirts, leather jackets, fishnet hose, parachute pants (hey, c'mon, it was the 80's) and the like. A haze of smoke, from either tobacco or some other unknown weed, hung over the crowd. It was a real, honest to goodness crowd of degenerates, and I drank the scene in. The crowd probably didn't look twice at the two little nerdlings that had just walked in, but to me it felt like I was being scrutinized, so I did what any normal person would do. I grabbed my sister's hand and bolted for the balcony.

Once upstairs, my sis and I settled into a couple of the hard wooden folding seats that populated the balcony and waited for the show to start. There was a really ominous-looking guy in front of us who either had a lazy eye, or else felt that keeping constant eye on us was far more rewarding than anything that went down onstage that night. His right eyeball, the only one I could see from my viewing angle, stayed on us the entire evening.

Finally, the lights went down and the crowd started cheering. Awesome! It was time to see Joan Jett! Oh, did I mention that I was a fan of hers, at least as much as I could be from just hearing "I Love Rock n' Roll" on the radio and being too young to know who the Runaways were. The music kicked in, and...wait, that wasn't Jett and her Blackhearts on the stage.

And thus young Devin learned his next lesson in the art of concert going, namely that there exists something called a "opening act." In this case said act was the Red Rockers, a band riding high on the strength of its radio single and related MTV video for the song "China." If you don't remember the tune don't feel too bad. The band's lead singer John Thomas Griffith, would later find fame as part of the excellent New Orleans party band Cowboy Mouth. That night though, the band was in full 80's mode, with bandanas, white dusters, and the inevitable 80's hair. Nothing so radical as that Flock of Seagulls guy...

...but 80's hair nonetheless. Upon meeting Griffith years later after a Cowboy Mouth show I would involuntarily gush to him that he was the first rock artist I ever saw play live and told him about the show I'm describing here. To my surprise, Griffith actually remembered the show, mostly because he and the rest of the band had signed a major-label contract in their dressing room that night, so it was an understandably surreal evening for him as well.

Anyway, back in 1983 the Red Rockers finished doing their thing and left the stage. The lights came up and music began to play of the house PA. Ah, an intermission. Yeah, I figured that out all by my 12 year old self. Having zero cash on me for even a Coke, I stayed put in my balcony seat under the watchful eye of ol' Evil Eye Fleegle. Eventually a song I recognized started playing. It was the WHO's "Won't Get Fooled Again," one of my favorites. I developed my early love of the WHO from my father, who used to listen to Roger Daltrey cassettes in his car when we drove around town. When the song reached its climax, where Daltrey let loose with his now legendary primal scream, all the lights in County Hall went out.

I held my position, and a few moments later the lights came up to a scene I'll remember for the rest of my life. There onstage was Joan Jett and The Blackhearts, and they were finishing that WHO song, live! You know, "meet the new boss, same as the old boss," cue Pete Townshend windmilling wildly, only here it was Jett windmilling. I got heart palpitations and goosebumps on top of goosebumps. Much like a heroin addict chasing the dragon, trying to replicate that first high, I've never quite been able to recapture the feeling I felt while witnessing what is still the coolest entrance to a rock concert I've ever seen.

With barely time to breathe, Jett and her boys kicked into "Bad Reputation," even taking liberty with the lyrics in the second verse to spit "Don't give a s**t 'bout my reputation!" into the microphone, causing my sister and I to stare saucer-eyed at one another. "Wha-...did she just say...?...Yes, yes, I do believe she did! Oh my god, this is the greatest thing ever!!!," screamed my 12 year old, catholic school attending, Hall & Oates loving brain. Upon finishing that song Jett paused to greet the crowd, making some joke about the lack of air-conditioning in the venue making it wet t-shirt night by default. Over the next 90 minutes or so Jett ran through her catalog up to that point. "Crimson and Clover," "Do You Wanna Touch Me (Oh Yeah)," a step back to her Runaways days for "Cherry Bomb," and of course, "I Love Rock n' Roll." At one point, during Jett's cover of Gary Glitter's "Do You Wanna Touch Me (Oh Yeah)," my sister and I, along with everyone else on the balcony, was standing on our seats, clapping our hands over our heads in time to the chorus of "Yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah!" Here's a video of Joan from around the same time if you need a reference.

By the end of the show I was spent. I walked out of the lobby, past the souvenir stand (note to self, bring money for a t-shirt next time), and out into the night, where my father was waiting to pick us up. The following Monday at school my friends quizzed me for details, but all I could do was smile for awhile before finally recounting every moment of the evening.

Years later I got to see Jett again in the mid-90's at the building that most recently housed the Buccaneer restaurant downtown on Faber St. It was either Myskyn's or Acme at the time, and I was working for 96 Wave as a weekend deejay. In effect I had found my way into the rock and roll world, having been hopeless when it came to learning to play and instrument. I tried to meet Jett through my radio station connections, but managed only to get my LP copy of "Album" signed.

Several more years later, in 2006 I had yet another chance to see Jett when she played in Ladson as a headliner on the Warped Tour. This time I lucked out and met Jett's manager, Kenny Laguna, who upon hearing that I was covering the event for the local newspaper, granted me an audience with Jett. It didn't last long, as Jett was preparing for her set and resting her voice, but as I stood on her tour bus and she emerged from the back room, I got the same sort of goose bumps I'd felt that night when I first saw her play. She was as nice as could be, and incredibly she had barely aged a day in the nearly quarter-century since I had first seen her onstage. "Joan, I'm not going to embarrass either of us by telling you what year it was, but you were the first rock concert I ever saw a few years back," I said to her. "Oh really," grinned Jett, who added, "Well, I'm glad I could be your first." She posed with me for a picture, ever though I was drenched in sweat from being outside in the hot Carolina summer, and that was that. I had finally met the reason I'm a rabid live music fan to this day. Oh, and after graciously meeting me Jett walked out to watch the other bands play prior to her set. I watched the younger music fans that were there to see bands like Motion City Soundtrack and Silverstein. Most of the kids were gathered in front of one of the two main stages, staking out a spot while they waited for some other band to play. When Jett and her Blackhearts took to the other stage and launched into "Bad Reputation," there was already a sizable crowd waiting for her, but a curious thing happened about a minute into that first song. Just about everyone holding a space over at the empty stage abandoned their place and ran over to see who was laying down the rock law at the adjacent stage. By the end of the song Jett had everyone eating out of her hand. Behold the power of rock and roll.

After seeing Jett live that night in 1983 my life would never be the same. Now when I swiped my father's Rolling Stone magazines and read the concert reviews, I could now say that I knew the glory of sharing the live music experience with a large group of like-minded individuals. I would also wear jeans and a t-shirt the next time.

I'm A Bereaver...

The news that Davy Jones, who is best known for his work with the pre-fabricated TV band The Monkees, had passed away this week saddened me, but also brought back a lot of good memories. Like The Beatles, The Monkees had broken up the month I was born, in April of 1970, but thanks to reruns of the band's television series from the 60's, my friends and I were all Monkees fans in the 70's. Sure, the whole reason The Monkees had come into existence in the first place was to cash in on Beatlemania, but during and after the TV show, Jones, Peter Tork, Micky Dolenz, and Michael Nesmith all came into their own as an actual band.

Once I discovered the music of The Monkees, I would run home from school each day and play the band's greatest hits album on my parent's stereo. Being that it was the 70's, of course I was listening to it on 8-track tape. My sister and I used to fight over what songs we got to hear first. I was a fan of the theme song and "Pleasant Valley Sunday," while sis was a "I'm a Believer" kind of girl.

I personally always thought that Nesmith or Dolenz would go first. Dolenz always seemed like the least healthy member of the band, although perhaps he just had a wide face. On the TV show Nesmith frequently looked like he would have rather been anywhere other than where he was, and as we found out after the fact that was actually the case. He rarely participated in the reunion tours that popped up from time to time over the years.

But no, it was Jones that left us first, and the music world is a little less happy without him. No one left to cheer up Sleepy Jean, or to sing about how he wants to be free. I think I'll search Hulu or Netflix and see if the old TV show is available online. My five-year old would probably get a kick out of it, even more than four decades after the fact.

Oh, and to further drive home the whole Monkees vs. Beatles folklore, when The Beatles played in America for the first time, on the Ed Sullivan Show in February of 1964, one of the other acts on Sullivan's variety show was a performance by the Broadway cast of "Oliver!" The part of the Artful Dodger was played by 19-year-old Davy Jones.

Ain't It Shocking What Love Can Do...

I'm going to go ahead and throw out a bit of personal opinion right here at the beginning of this installment that will surely have some folks throwing things at me (in a purely virtual way, of course). I was never a huge Whitney Houston fan. Oh sure, I definitely recognized her talent, and cannot deny her huge contribution to pop music in the 80's and 90's. However, I never really gravitated toward her songs. I would much rather have listened to Aretha Franklin or Chaka Khan. Still would. I'll go ahead and admit something else about Ms. Houston while we're at it; her death really didn't come as much of a surprise. Now I'm not saying that I was rooting for her demise, or that her name was on my dead pool ballot, but given the last decade or so of sadness that seemed to engulf the singer, I really can't say her death surprised me.

That famous interview with Diane Sawyer where Whitney declared "Crack is whack!" Keeps getting played on the cable news outlets as they milk this latest entertainment tragedy for all it is worth. Whether or not she had a crack habit at the height of her alleged drug abuse problem really isn't the point. What matters is that, like the late King of Pop Michael Jackson, there were likely people/handlers that knew what she was allegedly taking and who had the power to try to stop the alleged madness. No one did. Why? Mostly because even in a career in decline Houston was a meal ticket for those folks. The doctor who allegedly killed Jackson was reportedly making $150,000 per MONTH supplying Jackson with his "milk," and you can bet that Houston's entourage was being paid handsomely from the publicists down to the bodyguards (where was Kevin Costner when she needed him?).

Of course now that Houston is gone there will inevitably be a run on her music, both online and in stores. A news report earlier this week said that her record company had jacked up prices for her online songs 30% the day after her death, but the record company later said it was a mistake.

I was attending a concert at the North Charleston Performing Arts Center the night Houston passed. Although no official announcement was made during the show, one could almost see the ripple effect as the news started rolling into the audience member's smartphones via text message, Facebook, and Twitter. By the end of the show everyone knew.

While I was never a huge Houston fan, I do have fond memories of watching her videos on MTV as a teenager in the 80's, you know, when Music Television actually played music. During the years surrounding those first two albums Houston was the cute girl next door, bouncing sassily through videos for songs like "I Wanna Dance with Somebody" and "How Will I Know." It was safe 80's radio pop at its finest. I never watched the reality series Houston filmed with her now ex-husband Bobby Brown a few years back, but from the clips I've seem played on the news, it appeared that the sensationalism of that look into the private lives of two very public people may have been the beginning of the end. Now Houston is gone from this earth. It's pretty sad that she never saw the age of 50, which is an age milestone that I myself am less than a decade from. Who knows what could have been had she not taken that bath Saturday night. Didn't she almost have it all?

And When the Music Starts I Never Wanna Stop

So another Super Bowl has come and gone. Some folks wait all year to watch the two football teams involved face off for the honor of taking home the Vince Lombardi trophy. Personally, I come to the party for two reasons; the commercials and the halftime show. Unless my beloved San Diego Chargers ever make it back to the big game (they went once, in 1994, and lost), then I couldn't care less who wins the Super Bowl. Growing up the son of an advertising executive, I've always appreciated an effective advert, and Super Bowl Sunday is supposedly when Madison Ave. rolls out their best stuff. To be honest, this year's crop of commercials were, with a few exceptions, very...meh. The Audi vampire one was my favorite, followed closely by the Dorito's "You didn't see nuthin'" dog ad. But most of the commercials were lackluster. That left the big halftime show, which this year featured the Material Girl herself, Madonna.

The whole blockbuster musical act at Super Bowl halftime thing truly began in 1993 when Michael Jackson provided the musical entertainment. The halftime show has always been a part of the big game, starting back at Super Bowl I in 1967 when the entertainment consisted of several college marching bands and a drill team. That's pretty much how it went until 1972, when Ella Fitzgerald and Carol Channing showed up to help with that year's theme, "A Salute to Louis Armstrong." In later years performers consisted of everything from Up With People, to Walt Disney characters, to George Burns and Mickey Rooney. Yeah, I know, right? Things all changed though in '93 when the King of Pop put on what was, all things considered, a pretty damn good halftime show. Songs included "Jam," "Billie Jean," "Black or White," "We Are the World," and "Heal the World." For the most part from then on every Super Bowl halftime show tried to outdo the previous one. There was a bit of backpedaling in 1995, when the Disney-produced halftime show based on a new Disneyland ride called "Indiana Jones and the Temple of the Forbidden Eye. No, really. I swear.

After that little glitch halftime producers got down to business. Diana Ross, ZZ Top, James Brown, Stevie Wonder, Phil Collins, Aerosmith, Britney Spears, U2, Shania Twain, No Doubt, Sting, Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake (complete with Janet's infamous wardrobe malfunction), Paul McCartney, The Rolling Stones, Prince, Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers, Bruce Springsteen and The E Street Band, The Who, Black Eyed Peas have all taken their respective shots, and some have fared better than others.

So when it was announced last fall that Madonna would be this year's halftime attraction, I was actually intrigued. She has proved over and over again that she knows how to put on a live performance, so even though the 53-year-old Madge now qualifies for AARP benefits one still had to wonder what she'd dream up. As it turned out the spectacle was way more fabulous than anyone could have imagined. Sure, she and everyone around her was lip-syncing to the music, but from her Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra entrance, to the appearance of LMFAO, M.I.A., Nicki Minaj, and Cee Lo Green, this year's halftime show was spectacularly over the top. But really, would you expect anything less from Madonna? I actually had a few friends on Facebook moaning afterward that it was the worst Super Bowl halftime show ever. Really? The worst? I beg to differ. I myself happen to be a rabid fan of The Who, and yet even I will admit that group's halftime performance a couple of years ago was downright embarrassing.

Prince may have pulled off the greatest halftime show when he played back in 2007,

and Bruce Springsteen did as good a job two years later.

Madonna's show this year was everything I expected and even provided some great surprises. The appearance of LMFAO was interesting. I have a love/hate relationship with those guys, because while I realize what a great piece of dance-pop bubblegum their song "Party Rock Anthem" is, it is also the kickoff track to my personal soundtrack from hell. M.I.A.'s apparent single-digit salute gave the proceedings some controversy, but overall the show was a lot of fun. It certainly beat last year's mind-numbingly awful Black Eyed Peas performance. Now there is a musical act that I'll never understand the popularity of...

Help Me Get My Feet Back On the Ground...

I honestly don't remember when I first met Mac Leaphart, only that it was during a function put on by those champions of local music at Awendaw Green. I do remember two distinct things about that first encounter. First, since it was either fall or winter at the time Leaphart was wearing a denim jacket with sheep wool lining, and nearly every time I saw him perform outside after that he was wearing that jacket. The other thing I remember is how much of a natural he seemed like playing in front of the crowd that night. He'd had plenty of practice up until that point, playing in the local band Five Way Friday before going on to do his own thing. I remember being immediately impressed by his songwriting ability, especially the song "Confederate Roses." He also performed well with other musicians, really any other musician that cared to jam with him. Check out this performance with Occasional Milkshake, Doug Jones and Danielle Howle at The Windjammer a few years back. That's Mac with the acoustic guitar, tearing it up as usual.

I know it sounds like I'm talking about the guy like he's dead. Thankfully, he's not, although there were a couple of things that occurred last year that might very well have brought on death under a certain set of circumstances. First, after having headaches more and more often last year, Leaphart had an MRI done on the advice of a neurologist. The results were like something out of a bad Lifetime TV movie; a brain tumor about the size of a plumb. The thing obviously had been there awhile to be able to grow to that size, but had only recently started physically affecting Leaphart. All parties involved acted swiftly. Leaphart had surgery to remove the tumor late last year, and has been on the mend since. Given that the surgery involved was obviously of the brain variety, there is obviously going to be some extensive down time involved. Given that Leaphart's main source of income is as a touring musician, this latest turn of events definitely puts a crimp in his earning ability. A car accident in the middle of all of this didn't help matters.

Fortunately for Leaphart there is a huge group of fellow musicians and music industry types ready to lend a hand. On January 28 more than a few of those folks will gather at the Charleston Hippodrome adjacent to the South Carolina Aquarium for a fundraiser for Leaphart that celebrates his music via live performances and filmed tributes. The whole thing is the brainchild of two guys who know Leaphart well; Ben Bounds and Joel Frank. I'll be attending, and if you enjoy Leaphart's music - or even if you've never heard of the guy - you should come out to. With a bill that includes artists and bands such as Five Way Friday, Mark Bryan, Shovels & Rope, Jamie Resch, Doug Jones, Danielle Howle, John Wesley Satterfield, Luke Cunningham, Ryan Bonner, and quite a few others, it's going to be a great night of music to honor a truly great guy. Leaphart hopes to be back to performing by this spring, but in the meantime it's heartwarming to see the music community step up for one of their own.