Tell the Truth Until They Bleed
I'm in awe of Josh Alan Friedman. Not just because I once saw him play Jeff Beck's effects-laden Yardbirds-era homage to Les Paul, "Jeff's Boogie," note-for-note, on an acoustic guitar, no less (maybe ten years ago, at the now-defunct Borders at I-20 and Hulen, during my last sojourn in what used to be called "the record biz"). Au contraire.
This expat Noo Yawker, who's maybe a year older than me and got to Texas about a decade after I did (in 1987, he), penned two of the very best examples of music journalism of which I'm personally aware, while scribing for the Dallas Observer in the late '90s: profiles of Keith Ferguson and Tommy Shannon, who shared the distinction of having played bass for both Johnny Winter and Stevie Ray Vaughan, as well as the misfortune of having struggled with addiction and the law. Friedman caught Ferguson near the end of the line, battered but unrepentant, while the redemptive ending of Shannon's story was marred by his friend Stevie's death just four years after the two of them attained hard-won sobriety together. Friedman's clear-eyed portrayals of both men were notable for their compassion and empathy: you got the feeling he genuinely liked and respected his subjects. (Just read the last two paragraphs in the Shannon piece.)
Both of these pieces are included in the recently-published Friedman anthology Tell the Truth Until They Bleed: Coming Clean In the Dirty World of Blues and Rock 'n' Roll, the title of which comes from an exclamation Jerry Lieber made in response to a recollection by his fellow songwriter Doc Pomus of some record company president's thievery. Friedman's lengthy profile of Lieber, previously unpublished, sets the tone of the book, which documents the sea change that took place in the music business in the '70s, when the corporations took over from the madmen, visionaries, and old-school thugs.
Friedman was there, working at Regent Sound Studios in New York, where his assignment as a teenage "assistant engineer" was to organize and catalog a sprawling warehouse that held 50,000 forgotten reels of tape (chronicled here in "Adventures At the Bottom of the Music Trade"). Also included are the story of his degrading days as singer Ronnie Spector's boyfriend and shorter profiles of producer Joel Dorn, for whom he worked at Regent Sound; bassist Chuck Rainey, who played on hundreds of hits but couldn't get a gig in Fort Worth in the '90s; saxophonist David "Fathead" Newman; and R&B session guitarist Cornell Dupree, who was known as "C.L. Dupree" when he played the dives on Jacksboro Highway. Friedman tells his stories well, knows whereof he writes but doesn't come across like an academic or pedant. Instead, he lets you hear the rhythm of his characters' speech and gives you a sense of their humanity.
A few minor proofreading gaffes that only a Texan or an unreconstructed music geek would notice (it's Buda, not Buddha, Texas; Arnett, not Arnette Cobb; North Richland, not North Richmond Hills; and Silvio's, not Civio's blues club in Chicago), but that's just nitpicking. Friedman's the best music writer we've got right now, bar none, and this is a terrific book.
Oh yes -- and Friedman's apparently on TV tomorrow evening promoting the book.
This expat Noo Yawker, who's maybe a year older than me and got to Texas about a decade after I did (in 1987, he), penned two of the very best examples of music journalism of which I'm personally aware, while scribing for the Dallas Observer in the late '90s: profiles of Keith Ferguson and Tommy Shannon, who shared the distinction of having played bass for both Johnny Winter and Stevie Ray Vaughan, as well as the misfortune of having struggled with addiction and the law. Friedman caught Ferguson near the end of the line, battered but unrepentant, while the redemptive ending of Shannon's story was marred by his friend Stevie's death just four years after the two of them attained hard-won sobriety together. Friedman's clear-eyed portrayals of both men were notable for their compassion and empathy: you got the feeling he genuinely liked and respected his subjects. (Just read the last two paragraphs in the Shannon piece.)
Both of these pieces are included in the recently-published Friedman anthology Tell the Truth Until They Bleed: Coming Clean In the Dirty World of Blues and Rock 'n' Roll, the title of which comes from an exclamation Jerry Lieber made in response to a recollection by his fellow songwriter Doc Pomus of some record company president's thievery. Friedman's lengthy profile of Lieber, previously unpublished, sets the tone of the book, which documents the sea change that took place in the music business in the '70s, when the corporations took over from the madmen, visionaries, and old-school thugs.
Friedman was there, working at Regent Sound Studios in New York, where his assignment as a teenage "assistant engineer" was to organize and catalog a sprawling warehouse that held 50,000 forgotten reels of tape (chronicled here in "Adventures At the Bottom of the Music Trade"). Also included are the story of his degrading days as singer Ronnie Spector's boyfriend and shorter profiles of producer Joel Dorn, for whom he worked at Regent Sound; bassist Chuck Rainey, who played on hundreds of hits but couldn't get a gig in Fort Worth in the '90s; saxophonist David "Fathead" Newman; and R&B session guitarist Cornell Dupree, who was known as "C.L. Dupree" when he played the dives on Jacksboro Highway. Friedman tells his stories well, knows whereof he writes but doesn't come across like an academic or pedant. Instead, he lets you hear the rhythm of his characters' speech and gives you a sense of their humanity.
A few minor proofreading gaffes that only a Texan or an unreconstructed music geek would notice (it's Buda, not Buddha, Texas; Arnett, not Arnette Cobb; North Richland, not North Richmond Hills; and Silvio's, not Civio's blues club in Chicago), but that's just nitpicking. Friedman's the best music writer we've got right now, bar none, and this is a terrific book.
Oh yes -- and Friedman's apparently on TV tomorrow evening promoting the book.
posted by stashdauber at 5:36 PM
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