Charlie Poole wasn’t a particularly brilliant banjo player (although his later three-finger picking style would set the table for the advent of bluegrass banjo a couple of decades after his death), and he wasn’t the world’s greatest vocalist, either, but he had a certain devil-may-care charisma that made him a superstar in the string band era of the 1920s. Poole’s greatest talent-aside from an ability to go on long drinking sprees and somehow be at the center of things even in his absence-was in his song adaptations, which drew from sources outside the standard Appalachian fiddle tunes and reels, including pop, ragtime and blues.
In 2005, I reviewed an album by a great roots and rockabilly band The Two Timin’ Three. As sometimes happens to music writers, I lost track of the band. In 2007, I heard a few tracks posted on their Myspace page that hinted at a new, innovative sound that looked toward alt-rock while retaining much of what made them a first-rate roots band. Then, in late 2008 I was shocked to discover that 27-year-old Laufer, a motorcycle enthusiast, had been killed earlier in the year in a hit-and-run homicide while stopped at a red light on his bike. Laufer’s killer had been driving a truck and has still not been brought to justice.
Laufer’s family has spearheaded an email campaign to try and get his story on America’s Most Wanted. They are encouraging anyone who cares to email producers at AMW today (Sept. 10) and ask them to produce Eric’s story on the show in hopes of finding his killer.
Of all the great jazz vocalists of the 1950s and ’60s, Chris Connor is perhaps the least well-known today. Despite making a string of classic records for Atlantic, she always seems to be mentioned (if at all) after June Christy, Carmen McRae, Chet Baker, Anita O’Day or even Julie London when lists of the top singers of the era are compiled. Still, she was quite popular at the time, and it’s very easy to hear why. Though she could swing with anyone, her true greatness came on the slow songs, the torchy ones that come from broken hearts and messed-up lives, and sound best filtered through the blue haze of smoke and low lights. Connor could sing these ballads like Hank Aaron hit home runs: effortlessly and with loads of power. Her deep and rich voice caressed the words tenderly and with great care, giving the feeling that she was singing to you and you alone. Her death this week gives us a chance to look back on some wonderful performances and celebrate her all-too-short career.
Among the last of the great old country blues players discovered in the 1960s, Robert Pete Williams was easily the most unique. His ragged griot approach to the blues paid little attention to standard rhymes or blues forms, but it allowed him the freedom to spin personalized stories of tremendous emotional power, even when he was working from traditional pieces like “Motherless Child” or “Poor Boy Long Ways from Home.” A great introduction to this wonderful musician is the very affordable Long Ol’ Way from Home, released by the reissue label Fuel 2000 in 2004. Made up of recordings taped by Norman Dayron at concerts Williams gave at the University of Chicago and Lake Forest College in early 1965, it shows a masterful performer at the top of his game, playing flawless acoustic guitar and singing like a man who is assured he has something to say, and that he’ll be heard saying it. Songs like “Bye, Bye Baby,” “Lord, I’m Going Back Home Blues,” and “My Mother Prayed in the World One Day” have a quiet power and intimacy that move them past the dim-lit world of blues history and into the hushed silence of a modern concert hall. The immediacy of these Chicago and Lake Forest performances are so compelling, that even a novelty number, the goofy “Kazoo Blues,” featuring a true blues kazoo (you’ll understand when you hear it), seems to reverberate with poignant vitality. Williams put so much heart into his work that there are really no bad albums out there under his name, but this one is special. Well-recorded, and with a intimate tone that is perfect for Williams and his material, these priceless performances should not be missed.
“Bye, Bye Baby”
“Lord, I’m Going Back Home Soon”
“Kazoo Blues”
“Poor Boy Long Ol’ Way from Home”
Lee Fields is ready for his closeup. In fact, the old school soul shouter is overdue for his Sharon Jones moment. Just like her, he sweats, screams and bleeds soul. Unlike her, he’s been doing it since the late ’60s, recording singles and albums for small labels and never really hitting but always delivering the 100% greasy goods. In the late ’90s, Fields hooked up with the people who soon started the Daptone label and began to gain some more widespread acclaim among people who were blown away by his dedication and determination (as well as his unhinged vocals, which sound like James Brown in the middle of one of his angel dust-fueled misadventures.) His new album on the Truth & Soul label is called My World and it’s one of his best.
The reclusive and enigmatic Fred Neil really didn’t care one hoot about the machinations of the music business, and while it is tempting to compare him to someone like Nick Drake, whose bouts with depression kept him away from the limelight, it would appear Neil suffered instead from a severe case of personal and creative sanity, an ailment extremely rare in the music industry. And Neil knew how that industry worked very well. He was a Brill Building songwriter for a time. He played sessions (he was a session guitarist on Bobby Darin’s 1958 hit “Dream Lover,” for instance). He certainly knew how the publishing end of it worked, since the publishing royalties from Roy Orbison’s version of Neil’s “Candy Man,” a B-side hit in 1961, gave the unusually frugal Neil the freedom to do as he pleased in both his personal and creative life from that point on.
Today’s pop, rock, and rap stars owe more to William Bunch than they could ever realize. Bunch recognized way back in the 1920s that creating a bad-ass persona would do wonders for record sales, and drawing on a shady character from Black folklore, he re-christened himself Peetie Wheatstraw, claiming (long before Robert Johnson thought of it) that he had sold his soul to the devil down at the crossroads in exchange for success as a musician. It was a great calling card, and success he had, cutting upwards of 170 tracks for the ARC, Bluebird, and Decca labels before his death in 1941, and at his peak in the 1930s, he was the equivalent of a superstar.
Ed Harcourt recorded his previous album, The Beautiful Lie, during his final days as a bachelor. Three years later, the British songwriter is a happy husband and proud father, two titles that have wielded considerable influence on his writing.
“Whenever I get free time at home, I immediately get on the piano or pick up the guitar,” Harcourt explains from England, several days before he’s scheduled to fly to Seattle to begin work on a new album. “It’s sort of a race against time. But I’m working every day, maniacally writing three or four songs a week. I’ll have to choose the right songs for the album later, which is a painful process. It keeps me awake at night.”
Charlie Poole wasn’t a particularly brilliant banjo player (although his later three-finger picking style would set the table for the advent of bluegrass banjo a couple of decades after his death), and he wasn’t the world’s greatest vocalist, either, but he had a certain devil-may-care charisma that made him a superstar in the string band era of the 1920s. Poole’s greatest talent-aside from an ability to go on long drinking sprees and somehow be at the center of things even in his absence-was in his song adaptations, which drew from sources outside the standard Appalachian fiddle tunes and reels, including pop, ragtime and blues.
In 2005, I reviewed an album by a great roots and rockabilly band 
Of all the great jazz vocalists of the 1950s and ’60s, 
Among the last of the great old country blues players discovered in the 1960s, Robert Pete Williams was easily the most unique. His ragged griot approach to the blues paid little attention to standard rhymes or blues forms, but it allowed him the freedom to spin personalized stories of tremendous emotional power, even when he was working from traditional pieces like “Motherless Child” or “Poor Boy Long Ways from Home.” A great introduction to this wonderful musician is the very affordable 
The reclusive and enigmatic Fred Neil really didn’t care one hoot about the machinations of the music business, and while it is tempting to compare him to someone like Nick Drake, whose bouts with depression kept him away from the limelight, it would appear Neil suffered instead from a severe case of personal and creative sanity, an ailment extremely rare in the music industry. And Neil knew how that industry worked very well. He was a Brill Building songwriter for a time. He played sessions (he was a session guitarist on Bobby Darin’s 1958 hit “Dream Lover,” for instance). He certainly knew how the publishing end of it worked, since the publishing royalties from Roy Orbison’s version of Neil’s “Candy Man,” a B-side hit in 1961, gave the unusually frugal Neil the freedom to do as he pleased in both his personal and creative life from that point on.
Today’s pop, rock, and rap stars owe more to William Bunch than they could ever realize. Bunch recognized way back in the 1920s that creating a bad-ass persona would do wonders for record sales, and drawing on a shady character from Black folklore, he re-christened himself Peetie Wheatstraw, claiming (long before Robert Johnson thought of it) that he had sold his soul to the devil down at the crossroads in exchange for success as a musician. It was a great calling card, and success he had, cutting upwards of 170 tracks for the ARC, Bluebird, and Decca labels before his death in 1941, and at his peak in the 1930s, he was the equivalent of a superstar.
Ed Harcourt recorded his previous album, The Beautiful Lie, during his final days as a bachelor. Three years later, the British songwriter is a happy husband and proud father, two titles that have wielded considerable influence on his writing.
