Selected clips

It’s Not Who Killed Her, It’s What: An Interview with Nick Waterhouse

  • Gaper’s Block – February 19, 2014

Disclosure Brings Down the House of Blues 

  • Gaper’s Block – October 26, 2013

Our Favorite Acts at Pitchfork Music Festival 2013 

  • Gaper’s Block – July 17, 2013

Ten Ways to Keep the Night Alive: Pitchfork After-Party Guide

  • Gaper’s Block – July 8, 2013

Mavis Staples Keeps the Faith on “One True Vine” 

  • Gaper’s Block – June 24, 2013

Three Record Stores, One Afternoon

  • Gaper’s Block – December 6, 2012

Gambling on Cat Power

  • Gaper’s Block – October 23, 2012

Review: Macy Gray “Talking Book”

  • CoverMe – November 28, 2012

Broken Social Scene Takes on Modest Mouse’s “The World At Large”  

  • CoverMe – May 20, 2011

In December 2011, AV Club Austin and AV Club Chicago went offline. The site shutdowns were spawned by the Onion’s decision to suspend their local operations. Below you will find a sampling of the articles that I wrote for those websites while they were live.

5 soul artists, including Charles Bradley, who

have found themselves in times of trouble


Homelessness, cocaine addictions, depression, and alcoholism are all longstanding American traditions, especially within the music community. Without these classic anti-American dream stories, what would Bruce

Springsteen sing about? Injustice is the perfect impetus for creativity, Like and sometimes rock bottom can be where the magic happens. Think Bon Iver, Exile On Main Street, Tina Turner, and Britney Spears. Many successful artists pride themselves on having survived hard times, while the majority of musicians—the microphone-less masses—don’t ever acquire the fame that allows for such a soapbox.

 One such artist who fell in to the latter category for the majority of his life is soul-revivalist sensation Charles Bradley. Bradley, whose Feb. 18 show at Metro has excited soul music aficionados across Chicago, has redefined what the “long road” means. Before being saved from his beleaguered existence by Gabrielle Roth and the Daptone label, Bradley’s life was like a series of train wrecks, punctuated by a few happy moments that disappeared as quickly as a popped balloon. He kept change in his pocket with one lousy job after another and survived everything from losing all of his bandmates in the Vietnam War to sharing a car with an admitted cold-blooded killer while hitchhiking across America and Canada. He wasted a little time in California—which was bookended with unemployment—and then drove back to New York to be close with his family only to be set back once more, this time by personal tragedy. Just as Bradley started performing again, his brother was murdered, and his grief interrupted his nightly stints at juke joints where he sang under the name Black Velvet. Bradley was 50 at the time.

Getting knocked down once or twice makes for a good story, but getting hit over the head with a frying pan every time you stand back up doesn’t leave much room for a positive outlook—at least for most people. Bradley never saw it that way. His James Brown-inspired itch for music kept him performing, and now it seems like his frazzled empathy and no-handout-needed life has helped endear him to thousands of fans. Perhaps for the first time in his life, at the age of 63, his winning streak will last.

In honor of Bradley’s upcoming performance, The A.V. Club presents a few other soul artists who have found themselves in times of trouble.

Dusty Springfield

Unlike Charles Bradley, Dusty Springfield, the white queen of soul, had a long way to fall before she hit rock bottom. She was at the top of the charts when her erratic behavior and intractable insecurity began to break her down. When the now critically acclaimed Dusty In Memphis flopped on the charts in 1969, Springfield withdrew from the spotlight. The failure and her accompanying reaction caused her career to stall out and idle in a long period of silence in the early ’70s. She spent more than 20 years out of the spotlight and in the shadows of manic depression, alcoholism, cocaine addiction, and self-abuse. An inability to come to terms with her not-so-heterosexuality thickened her self-hatred, and bad career advice bent her even further away from the possibility of restored success in the ’80s. She was wilting and the public had stopped listening. They took back their enthusiasm that they loaned her in the ’60s and Springfield took it personally. She was weary of the world even when she seemed to have it on a string, and insecurity followed her as closely as her own shadow.

It would be a stretch to say that she died alone in a house full of cats, but her final years were tainted by wistfulness and she did have quite a lot of cats. Of course she also had royalties she could cash in on and a reputation that allowed for her to be treated as a pop icon, albeit an irrelevant one, in the U.K. Springfield said it best herself when she said, “I never used my illnesses to be fashionable,” and no one thought of them that way. Her tendencies to start food fights in pubs and throw plates and records at her producers were always described as “deranged,” but the music insiders who adored her took it in a stride. It was Springfield’s own self-loathing that rendered their adoration futile and her eventual ending was humble and heartbreaking.

Gil Scott-Heron

Gil Scott-Heron, the Godfather of hip-hop—although he would most likely cringe in the grave at that title—hit every tier of tragedy on the hard times pyramid. Pictures of him from his elder years depict a man who has been made thin by years of cocaine abuse, so much so that he looks merely like a string of bones wearing clothes. With the exception of a little bit of jail time here and a few performances there, Scott-Heron spent the majority of his final years as a shut-in. He allegedly told a writer for The New Yorker looking for an interview, “Where else would a caveman be other than in his cave?”

Scott-Heron was a philosopher in the same way that Dylan was, and had a more expansive mind than most common folk, but he was also a man full of foibles who never stopped toiling and triumphing in equal measure. He was arrested for cocaine possession a number of times, once in an airport smuggling story strikingly similar to Michael Vick’s experience, and another time on the streets of New York, where a handshake and a piece of tinfoil were enough to give him away. He went to desperate measures to keep the buzz alive, measures that eventually brought HIV into his life and drove his lovers and friends out of it. He kept a blowtorch by his bed. When he ran out of money he would sleep for two weeks straight until his next royalty checks came in. Everybody thought he was finished long before he drew his last breath, but like a true spoken word artist, it was Scott-Heron who had the final say. He finished life on his own terms with a 2010 farewell album entitled I’m New Here that was critically lauded and proved that the only thing more powerful and potent than his addiction was his intellect.

Jackie Wilson

He had a voice that stretched like Laffy Taffy. His biggest fan was Elvis Presley. His pompadour was the tallest in the business, taller than the Madame’s, and in the ’50s he already had the swagger and the sound that would have enabled him to corner the entire impending soul market. But that didn’t end up being his legacy, thanks to a series of tragedies that set in early. It started with a shooting in 1961 in which Wilson’s jealous girlfriend shot him in the back, leaving a bullet that remained lodged in his spine for the rest of his life. Then came financial distress, drug addiction, reclusiveness, and—in no particular order—a few other things including, but not limited to, the death of his three children (all of whom died before they were 25), rape allegations, a Patti LaBelle groping incident, and a massive heart attack that resulted in a nine-year coma. On the bright side of things, he did come out of his coma for two days in 1976, and was even able to walk a few steps, before collapsing back into it and sleeping his way to death. This story does have a happy ending fortunately, because thanks to the good people of Detroit, Wilson’s burial site was finally given a proper headstone three years after he was laid to rest.

Howard Tate

Rock bottom often goes by another name: insurance salesman. This was the role soul legend Howard Tate found himself in after deciding to exit the music business in the late ’70s. Throughout the mid to late ’60s, Tate’s albums were critically acclaimed and he pocketed a few R&B chart toppers but no accolades could alleviate his general dissatisfaction with the industry. Tate claimed his overnight departure was a result of bitterness and resentment brought on by financial injustices (a common theme within the industry) and he tried to cope using the oft-successful method of suppression. He threw his records out, denied his radio the right to ever play again, and then, in a sweeping attempt to forget, landed a job as an insurance salesman. Of course the drudgery of that work coupled with his house burning down put him in the hands of more misery—cocaine. Riled up on Casey Jones syndrome, Tate spent the entirety of the ’80s trying to find work cleaning out people’s gutters so that he could make the 20 bucks he needed for another gram. These cold years came and went but eventually Tate was saved—in the higher power sense—and sobered up. He became a minister of a church that ousted him when he decided to record secular music again, something he wanted to do in order to raise money, help homeless people, and serve the Lord. But nay, the church still resisted and it was their loss in the end. Howard Tate’s tale of redemption ends sweetly with the reconnecting of his longtime producer Jerry Ragovoy. Together they created a comeback album as good as Al Green’s Lay It Down. Having survived his hard life, Tate was finally able to re-center his life on gospel and pop music, which as any good soul singer of the ’60s would tell you, is a mighty fine way to serve the Lord.

Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears Debut

“Mustang Ranch” Music Video


Watch the video for Black Joe Lewis And The Honeybearsʼ “Mustang Ranch”

Black Joe Lewis And The Honeybears take their raging hijinks into a new realm of strange with the video for their ode to brothel trysts, “Mustang Ranch.” Cheekily illustrated by Justin Buschardt and animated by Tad Catalano, the video is a bawdy (and hilariously literal) interpretation of the greasy talking blues number about whore-hopping which stops just short of being too inappropriate to be sent to your co-worker. It runs a bit like a drunkard’s walk—random and chockablock with unexpected details. (Is that a cartoon version Spoon drummer/Honeybears producer Jim Eno flashing his business card in the bar area?) But it still cobbles together quality, Adult Swim-inspired imagery for a tale narrated by a roaming musician who, for fuck’s sake, is just trying to get his ham glazed.

Scott H. Biram Doesn’t Want To Hear About The

Last Time You Washed Your Hair


The Houston Press’s Rocks Off blog recently interviewed blues/punk/metal/country and everything in-between luminary Scott H. Biram. In the interview, Biram detailed his frustrations with misbehaving audiences. Spawned by an incident in Memphis in which an attendee sullied his show by peppering it with comments on how often she shampoos her hair, Biram took to his Facebook to brazenly request that his so-called fans shut the fuck up while he performs. He then expanded upon that opinion for Rocks Off by unfurling a list of other boorish concert habits that make his blood boil. They are as follows:

1. Stand right up front (specifically during slower, quiet songs) and have long, in-depth conversations about bullshit like how often they wash their hair. If I can hear the subject of your conversation from the stage, you’re an asshole.

2. Throw beer or anything at me or my equipment. 3. Clap along with no rhythm … especially in slow songs that don’t need any percussion. 4. Steal merch and spill shit on the merch table. 5. Bitch and moan that I never come to your town and then don’t show up when I do, or write me obnoxious comments on Facebook such as “Why the fuck don’t you ever play in ____?” when in fact I played there last week.

6. People who come up to me and tell me how much they love my music, but then start telling me how much they hate Texas. I hate that shit.

So when Biram comes to the Continental Club on July 2, try not to vex the moonshine-gurgling man with your tawdry talk. And if you do decide to raise the wrong kind of hell, just know that Biram has an endless reserve of whoop-ass and an unyielding desire to dole it out.

Recap: Gary Clark Jr. at Antone’s


As the lights dimmed across the venue, an Antone’s staffer made his way onto the stage, took a moment to gurgle and wash down his whiskey, and then hollered in his Texas drawl, “Are y’all ready to raise the roof?” A chorus of hoots and howls responded, and suddenly the emcee was battling with the crowd for the right to introduce Austin’s local hero and Antone’s current pride and joy, Gary Clark Jr.

“Now we here at Antone’s know him as ‘Little Gary,’ but apparently he ain’t little no’ mo,’ and he’s goin’ by his full name, so come on out here Gary Clark Jr.!” With that humble summoning, the headliner nonchalantly took to the stage looking more like an ego-less, virgin performer and less like someone Rolling Stone would declare rock’s “Best Young Gun.” Such tamed and gentle swagger from a major label signee is a rarity—coupled with a live performance, it allows for approachability between the artist and the attendees and produces a collectivist atmosphere.

The performance teetered on the delicate brim of perfection all night, spearheaded by the heavy “When My Train Pulls In.” Throughout the textbook blues number, Clark played his guitar as effortlessly and stylishly as he wore his signature fedora, and he fed the audience ripe riff after ripe riff. He then brought his bright instrumentation into the shadows with his backing band, which was busy creating a wall of sound around him, and balanced his punchy, staccato solos with flowing, extended measures that gave the song a back-and-forth, push-and-pull momentum.

Following the extended coda of “When My Train Pulls In,” Clark mumbled his first few words— “Wassup, Austin?”—before returning to the music, confirming that this young man—like his forebears Hendrix, Hopkins, and Wolf—would let his guitar do most of the talking. A slew of newer songs followed, including the jaunty “Don’t Owe You A Thang,” in which Clark’s fingers agilely sprinted from one of end of the fretboard to the other, flicking strings and cobbling together distorted blues patterns. By the end of the song, Clark had successfully traversed through the traditional realm of blues and into his own eclectic temple of sound.

Taking a break from full-band numbers, Clark had plenty of room to wander about the stage, but instead chose to draw the crowd into an intimate space, with only a mic stand serving as a performer- audience barrier. He temporarily put the tried-and-true blues songs on ice and, with a tip of the hat to Aaron Neville and Aretha Franklin, showed off his melismatic, melt-at-your-ears falsetto with the self-assured, soulful “Don’t Cry For Me.” The fight for Clark’s most notable talent came to a head on the song “Please Come Home,” in which he laid down layered, sentimental, acoustic notes and sang in a textured, honeyed voice that stretched like taffy through high and low notes.

This ballad-heavy portion of the set drove away part of the crowd, but Clark only flinched in order to toast those who remained, then brought his band back up to tear into the closing number, “Bright Lights, Big City.” It was a galvanizing ending, featuring a jam session in which every band member was given a moment in the spotlight. Meanwhile Clark, with an earnest expression and closed eyes, arched over his guitar and descended to his knees, looking like a man uttering his most desperate prayer. It was an appropriately reverent gesture from “Little Gary,” showing that he’s not only a genre- bending steward of the blues, but also the music’s devoted godson.

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