Doris had the unlikely fortune of being discovered by James Brown, while she worked as an usherette at Harlem’s famous Apollo Theater. At the time, she was writing and performing under the name of Doris Payne. After cutting a demo, she began shopping it around, starting with Sue Records. Unfortunately for Sue, they had lost ground in the R&B stream to bigger soul labels like Atlantic, Stax and Motown. Their lack of response to “Just One Look” caused Doris to bring her demo to Jerry Wexler, of Atlantic.

Wexler and everyone else went crazy. Immediately, plans were made to rush release “Just One Look” as a single, but since Doris was currently on the road with Chuck Jackson, she had no time to come back and recut it. The version the world came to know and love was the original demo she cut on a shoestring budget. From the moment that walking piano bass line is met by the riffing guitar and free-falling, high octave piano chords, the listener is in a soul-drenched pop heaven. Doris’ low mezzo voice dips down into the depths, before reaching high into an ecstatic cry, as the first line comes screaming at the audience. It’s a well-crafted pop line about instant attraction; the message is as direct as a clarion call, but the thing that really makes it is Troy’s vocal line. The melody takes an otherwise plain line and turns it into a memorable piece of pop that you can’t get out of your ears. You may have no idea where you’ve heard it before, or what exactly she’s saying, but when she hits that first phrase, you want to hear it again and again.

“Just one look, and I fell so ha-a-aaaarrrrrdddd in love with yooouuuuuuuuu! Oh, oh! Oh, oh!”

It’s also important to know that this was a demo, not intended for radio play. This was meant to be shown to record labels, with the hopes of getting it re-cut professionally and released for radio play. Yet, had it been redone, some of the primal rawness of her scream would have been lost. When she hits those high notes, she’s actually topping out the mic she’s singing into, giving a small amount of tinny feedback on top. The overall mix is great, but had it been recut by Atlantic, some of the rough edges would have been smoothed out, pushed back, other things enhanced, etc. The brightness and raw edge would have been missed, and in my mind, those are the things that make this song stand out.

Though Doris didn’t find lasting success in America, “Just One Look” climbed to #10 on the Billboard charts in 1963. Her true fan base was in the UK, where Brit pop/rock band The Hollies recut “Just One Look” in 1964, sending it to the #2 spot in Britain and eventually #44 on the American charts. In the years since its original release, it has subsequently been covered by Anne Murray, Linda Ronstadt Lynda Carter, Lulu, Harry Nilsson and others.

I think it’s important to note, that although you would expect to hear this song in the same itunes playlist as Ray Charles and Etta James, when I recently created a Genius Mix using “Just One Look”, other artists that appeared in the mix were Buddy Holly, The Allman Brothers, The Byrds, The Rolling Stones, The Beach Boys and The Velvet Underground, cementing the fact that this song was instrumental in bridging the gap between Pop and R&B, even before the Philadelphia sound of the 70s.

Between Buddy Holly’s plane crash and Bob Dylan’s emergence as our newest folk hero, a slew of girl groups and one hit wonders kept our feet tapping along with the beat. Though most of them weren’t ever responsible for putting pen to paper, Doris Troy stands out as a trailblazer for female singer/songwriters. Unbeknownst to her, “Just One Look” would become an important piece of America’s vivid musical patchwork quilt.

The differences between a sideman and a frontman are obvious. The front man is the focal point, while the side man is there to back him up. If the front man wants to leap into the air doing vocal karate chops, the band has to be there to catch him if he falls. In the world of sidemen, the bass player is usually relegated to that dark corner of the stage that no one sees, hidden behind a cumbersome piece of wood and the same three notes. Joe Fick is a bass player, but he’s no sideman.

With charisma to match a stick of dynamite and talent to back it up, he can simultaneously compliment and outshine any member of the band. The roster of artists he has performed with reads like a Who’s Who of Rock n’ Roll, including Cordell Jackson, J M Van Eaton, Roland Janes, W.S. Holland, Wanda Jackson, Malcolm Yelvington, Billy Lee Riley, Sonny Burgess, Ace Cannon, Sanford Clark, James Burton, Ronnie Tutt, Boots Randolph, Paul Burlison of The Rock n’Roll Trio and The Jordinaires. As part of Memphis-based band, The Dempseys, Fick has shared billings with Carl Perkins, Scotty Moore and DJ Fontana.

His musical roots run deep. He began his career at age 5 on violin and after trying his hand at piano, cello and guitar, he finally settled on bass.

“My logic told me if I could fake my way through six strings then four strings was going to be more practical and manageable and I would have a fighting chance,” he says.

By junior high, Joe had formed The Dempseys with best friend and guitar player Brad Birkedahl. While Joe had grown up on classical, jazz and pop, it was Brad who changed the trajectory of Fick’s life by introducing him to the music of Sun Records. Sometimes, a best friend will introduce you to the love of your life, and in Joe’s case, it was the music of Bill Black.

“For someone that had been brought up playing Mozart and Beethoven in the orchestra, you can understand my curiosity in Bill Black’s slapped bass technique. It was raw, energetic and rhythmic, plus he added the comedic element to the band; a true performer,” Fick says.

Fick studied Black’s musical and performance techniques like it was his job. In 2006, all that hard work paid off when Fick and Brad, along with drummer Ron Perrone, were cast as Scotty Moore, Bill Black and DJ Fontana in Walk The Line. From here, Joe went on to explore the music of other influential bass players like Willie Dixon, Milt Hinton, Slam Stewart and Louis Vola.

The Dempseys had gathered a lot of steam through Joe’s high school and college years, finally moving to Memphis in 1998. They held a regular gigs at Elvis Presley’s Memphis on Beale and Blues City Cafe, while also playing monthly gigs at Rippy’s in Nashville. They were known as much for their antics as they were for their wide palette of American music and sheer talent. Often, Joe would stand on top of his bass, playing Brad’s guitar, while Brad would stand below playing Joe’s bass. As great as it was, all good things must come to an end. In 2009, Fick packed his bags and headed to Nashville. Quickly setting up shop with Lower Broadway phenom Travis Mann, Joe became the sideshow dynamo to Mann’s cool frontman persona. He continues to play at Rippy’s on a regular basis with the group Tom, Lyle and Joe, while also holding down weekly gigs with Harry Fontana, Slim Chance, Eileen Rose and The Silver Threads and The Don Kelley Band at Robert’s Western World and Layla’s Bluegrass Inn.

From the Far West to the Deep South, sound stages to main stages and everywhere in between, Joe has become the musician you can’t just hear; you have to see him to believe him.

July 6, 1958 was sweltering. During the dog days of summer, you can feel the air hanging from the tree limbs, dripping like fresh clover honey. Anything that touches the night air is carried with a weight of exhausted anticipation. On this night, the sounds of crickets blended with crackles of laughter, and outdoor music drifted lazily over the whir of passing automobiles. The remnants of a weekend in Newport, Rhode Island had gathered on the lawn of Fort Adams State Park, for what became a momentary salvation; a radiance of spirit that soared high to the heavens and expanded through every soul in the crowd. To many, Mahalia Jackson‘s appearance at the 1958 Newport Jazz Festival eclipsed all other performances, from the legendary Louis Armstrong to the upstart Chuck Berry. Hers was the set that made everyone have to stop and catch their breath.

If you go back far enough, you’ll find that jazz, blues and gospel all came from the pulpit. The difference is where they traveled, once they left. Jazz went to the bar and blues went to the grave, while gospel continues to stand in the front pew, hands outstretched and screaming for the spirit. All deal with the same subject matter, and are buoyed along by the same fervor, but in the years since their separation have acquired different philosophies. Needless to say, when George Wein brought together all these different styles for one purpose, there was both great tension and greater release. Miles Davis continued to redefine himself, while Duke Ellington brought himself back into relevance. Louis Armstrong swung into high gear while Chuck Berry drove his groove through the radiator. Friday and Saturday night reeled and rocked, sending body and soul into a state of ecstasy; then Sunday rolled around.

Mahalia was introduced simply: “Ladies and gentleman: it is Sunday, and it is time for the world’s greatest gospel singer, Miss Mahalia Jackson”. From the first tender notes to the final triumphant cadence, she gives her all to the audience. One almost feels like an intruder upon her first song, “An Evening Prayer”, as if you accidentally stumbled into a chapel to find her praying out loud. Something intensely personal has become public, not for spectacle’s sake, but as an offering to God and her fellow-man. She moves on through “A City Called Heaven”, not shaken, but world-weary. Her contralto voice is never timid, always sure. She sings with a conviction, not from herself nor pointing a judgemental finger. It simply flows out of her like a cool water.  Moving on through ” I’m On My Way”, “It Don’t Cost Very Much” and “Didn’t It Rain”, she picks up momentum, dragging the musicians with her and whipping all up into a buoyant fury. If you listen carefully, you can hear the audience going right along with her, clapping hands and hollering for more. Her set is supposed to end after forty-five minutes, with “The Lord’s Prayer” closing it out, but the audience spurs her onto another four songs. All of the energy exuded in the previous set was brought back in, and focused up towards heaven as she moves through this beautiful prayer. Once again, we are caught eavesdropping on her most sacred moment of solitude. She makes it through her encore, being greeted on the other side by  thousands upon thousands who had just unwittingly participated in a divine moment.

While every musician on that particular weekend put their all into what they were giving away, Mahalia was completely different. Her gift, her song, her being on that stage served one purpose only; to serve the Lord. She went where she was led, she sang what mattered to her and she lived upward as much as outward. I got to do a little research on Miss Jackson before sitting down to write, and her life offstage was as brilliant as her life under the lights. She was a central figure in the Civil Rights movement, she established a scholarship program for underprivileged  children who wanted to go to college, and she toured the world, spreading the Good News. Through it all, she lived humbly in a brick house in suburban Chicago, owning a floral shop and a beauty parlor until her death from heart failure in 1972.

Mahalia Jackson was able to take the sacred moment into the secular, thus making all moments before, after and around ring out with reverence and reverie. Both sinners and saints, believers and patient observers were a part of the communion. She was surrounded by the cream of American musicians that weekend, and in return, they were graced with her gifting. A musician’s creative force is poured out through the work they create, and it is arguable where it comes from. One thing is certain; for at least an hour on Sunday, July 6, 1958, Newport and the rest of the world received an unexpected and momentary salvation.

Depending on who you ask, the tale you’re told about the present presence and future pretense of country music will waffle between sinking ships and soaring rockets. Either it’s gotta get better or it’s gonna get worse, with no room for compromise. Forty years ago, you could adjust the radio dial and go from one extreme to the other, knowing exactly what they were. When you turn on the radio these days, for better or worse, it all blends together into a hodge-podge of jazz infused-country/pop, having singer/songwriter sincerity and classic-rock power chord progressions. I admit to holding a special place in my itunes playlist for such musical salad, but I also know where to go when I’m hungry for meat and potatoes. There are still places that not only adhere to their roots, but refuse to stray from the strands that continue to define America‘s musical pedigree. On a bustling city street in downtown Nashville, sandwiched between a barbecue joint and a string of other notable watering holes sits the self-proclaimed “Home of Traditional Country Music“, and the probable savior of an otherwise dying breed of  song, Robert’s Western World.

Robert’s has been around, in one form or another since the early 1990s, morphing from western wear shop to hillbilly watering hole to bona-fide honky-tonk in less than a decade. It’s musical lineage stretches back even further than the name emblazoned on its neon sign, beginning in 1964 with the opening of Sho-Bud Steel Guitars. Though Sho-Bud had been around since 1955, the departure of founding partner Buddy Emmons brought the business from its Madison, TN location down to the dirty sidewalks of Broadway. It was the perfect spot, sharing an alley with the Ryman Auditorium, and staring into the front windows of the Ernest Tubb Record Shop, this is where both touring and local musicians did their business, both personal and professional. As it does, time passed, and the shop began to change. The manufacturing portion of Sho-Bud was moved back to Madison in 1968, while the retail store and custom/repair shop stayed downtown. More changes took place throughout the 70s, and by the end of the decade, both the manufacturing and selling of Sho-Bud products had moved out, leaving Shot Jackson‘s Guitar and Repair Center. 1983 saw the final nail driven into the coffin, and 416 Broadway became another one in a long string of liquor stores, peep shows, adult book stores, etc.

So, why did what was once the musical epicenter of country music, suddenly become the place no self-respecting citizen would dare journey into? It’s because the Grand Ol’ Opry moved to the suburbs, with most of its listeners. The new Opry complex, built in 1974, left the Ryman lying derelict and any traces of its melodies scattered to the four winds. That is, until 1992.

Robert Wayne Moore, one-time proprietor of Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge, turned what had become Lynn’s Liquor Store into Rhinestone Western Wear. Never straying too far from his bar-owner roots, he installed a jukebox, beer cooler and cigarettes behind the counter. Still, this was not enough, so out went the jukebox and in came a small stage and grill. As time passed, as we all now know that it does, the rhinestone wear gave way to liquor racks and dance floor space. Musicians filed in and out, taking their turns at the mic or writing songs at a free table. The most legendary of these, known as BR5-49 were pivotal in revamping the landscape of Lower Broad. Becoming the house band at Robert’s, they dove head first into the back catalogue of hillbilly twang, putting their own neo-traditional stamp on it. Going through enough Pabst Blue Ribbon and sliced baloney to afford a name change, Rhinestone Western Wear became Robert’s 3 Doors Down (from Tootsie’s). Over the next few years, they sold fewer boots and more beer, so Robert’s Western Wear Bar and Nightclub was christened, which finally became Robert’s Western World in 1999, upon the sale to its current proprietor, Jesse Lee Jones.

Any given night, you will walk into Robert’s, noticing three things. First, there still stands a wall of boots directly across from the bar. Though no longer for sale, I’m willing to bet that if the price were right, you could still walk out with your very own pair. Second, the abundance of memorabilia adorning every nook and cranny. Countless faces have passed through the door, known and unknown, friends and strangers, the lonely and the loner. Most importantly, and the reason that you will sit down and stay, is the music. You won’t hear a note of current Top-40. What you’ll hear are the sounds of an era, previously relegated to the audio section of your local public library. At Robert’s, tradition comes alive in vibrant color, right before your eyes and for the pleasure of your ears. Folk, blues, bluegrass, rockabilly, honky-tonk, gospel. Train songs, plain songs, belly rubbing shuffles and jitterbug tunes. In here, you can hear the cream of Nashville’s professional musicians scream through Johnny Cash and Marty Robbins, Tom T. Hall and Bob Wills, with the grace and style most radio acts can’t fathom.

I’ve been everywhere, and I’ve spent my fair share of time bellied up to the bar, but this particular one has a special place in my heart. You see, I’m the one waiting when you walk in and ask for a drink. I’ve danced across its floors, taken its stage and popped thousands of PBR tops over the course of four years. It serves as second home, school-house and sometime chopping block for my ideas and ideals. It has taught me the relevance of tradition, in a society where fleeting trends are the base commerce.

Country music is not dead. It continues to live on in the highways and byways, with the people and places who have become laymen curators.You can still hear it on the radio, but much like a photocopy of a photocopy has dulled the edges of the original picture, modern country has smoothed out the once rough edges of a vibrant culture. Robert’s Western World has become the keeper of the keys, proving that “3 chords and the truth” is still enough.

The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads Wow.

Crunchy numbers

A Boeing 747-400 passenger jet can hold 416 passengers. This blog was viewed about 4,100 times in 2010. That’s about 10 full 747s.

In 2010, there were 45 new posts, not bad for the first year! There were 11 pictures uploaded, taking up a total of 12mb. That’s about a picture per month.

The busiest day of the year was April 22nd with 252 views. The most popular post that day was Sitting On The Dock, With Otis Redding.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were expectingrain.com, facebook.com, 64.224.195.170, en.wordpress.com, and mail.yahoo.com.

Some visitors came searching, mostly for patsy cline death photos, patsy cline, patsy cline death, jerry reed, and the wrecking crew.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.

Sitting On The Dock, With Otis Redding April 2010
5 comments

Down In Infamy: The Death of Patsy Cline March 2010

The Price of Free Love…Altamont, 1969 April 2010
1 comment

The “Man In Black”, In Color: The Johnny Cash Show February 2010

Music Makers and Image Breakers: The Wrecking Crew April 2010

Every American knows the blues. We’ve all heard it drifting up from the sticky Mississippi delta, salty and reeking of bathtub gin; anyone who knows a rock song unwittingly knows the blues lick that preceded it. Modern media have done much to propel the delta blues into our musical lexicon, but what about the blues of a different hue? What about the pickers east of the mighty Mississippi, coming from the red clay rocks of Georgia, or the mountains of Appalachia? Theirs is an amalgamation of once popular styles, molded by nimble hands and finely tuned ears, known as the Piedmont Blues.

The Piedmont plateau region runs from Richmond, VA to Atlanta, GA, stretching out to the edges of the Appalachian range on all sides. Many African-Americans began their migration here during Reconstruction and on through the 1920s, taking with them the musical traditions they had begun earlier. The natural barrier created by the mountains kept the local culture from expanding further north and west, and by the early 20th century, many musical styles had converged upon each other.

The ragtime and string band traditions melded with the white folk sounds of the mountain hollers, resulting in a highly syncopated, fingerpicking guitar style. Whereas ragtime piano uses the walking-bass left hand to support the melody driven right hand, Piedmont blues converts all action into the right hand. The thumb acts as the bass, while the rest of the fingers pick out the melody. Since influence was pulled from an assortment of different sources (country, ragtime, string bands and folk), Piedmont blues tend to have a lighter touch, as opposed to the heavy-handed delta sound.

As with delta blues, the heyday of the Piedmont sound lasted through the 1920s and 30s, falling by the wayside during the war years, only to be picked up again by folklorists and revivalists of the late 1950s. Some of the most popular names in Piedmont blues are Blind Willie McTell, Blind Blake and Reverend Gary Davis. Their influence is heard in bands ranging from the Rolling Stones to Bob Dylan and the Carolina Chocolate Drops, to name a few.

It’s said that there are many ways to skin a cat, and that rings as true in blues music as in anything else. The blues are an idea, conveyed in whatever style is readily available to the player at the time. Like it’s more popular counterpart, Piedmont fingerpicking blues has done more than its share to propel music forward, while pulling the past along for the ride.

At the console recording "Red Headed Stranger"

In my mind, the West sounds like a jangly acoustic guitar. The sun coming up over the Rockies, as it slowly unrolls over the jagged peaks and dips, melting over the dirty sagebrush, actually has a sound. It expands out, from the inner ear, down through the heart, between the lungs and lower spinal column, all the way to the tips of my boots, bleeding out onto the warm ground. The sound of the West is lonesome, almost by choice, stained by some unnamed sadness. Never being one to jump on the bandwagon too soon, for fear that it might lose a wheel, I waited until last month to pick up Willie Nelson’s Red Headed Stranger. Not to worry though, I did it the right way: I found it on vinyl, as God intended, and had my first encounter through the crackling speaker of my hi-fi. In a time of slick production and large-scale schlock, Willie managed to re-invent the wheel, creating a new standard for story, song and America’s greatest legacy: the cowboy.

Up to 1975, Nelson had little success as a performer. He was known around Nashville as a songwriter, having penned such early 60s hits as, “Hello Walls” (Faron Young), “Night Life” (Ray Price) and “Crazy” (Patsy Cline). He had left Nashville, retiring to Austin, TX in the early 70s. Not satisfied, he began performing locally and became a huge draw with his eclectic style of outlaw country. A new recording contract with Columbia in 1975 gave him full artistic control of any album he put out, resulting in the greatest country concept album of all time. Red Headed Stranger tells the story of a preacher-turned-outlaw, spurned by his wife for another man. He kills the pair and flees, meeting and killing a feisty blonde along the way. The years whittle away, and he ends up in Colorado, meeting and falling in love with another woman. The redemption he never expected, found him in a bar, much like the one he fled from earlier. It is a happy ending, tinged with the fleeting memory of his first love. Despite skepticism from Columbia, the album soared to the top of the charts, both country and mainstream.

The contrasts between Stranger and any given Nashville album from the time are stark. Whereas any given Nashville album was loaded down with lush orchestrations and polished vocals, Stranger is stripped down to its essentials. Nelson’s nylon-stringed guitar plays throughout, sometimes accompanied by his sister Bobbie on barroom piano and bass, often times plucking solo. Tambourines and snares walk in and out of the room, while Nelson’s voice growls out the tale, sounding like a weathered medicine man in need of a tonic. He’s the cowboy sitting at the back of the bar, half-hidden by shadow. You’d sit and talk with him if you were certain his pistol were holstered. He tells the story as if he had been there watching it himself. Hell, he probably was.

Not only did Nelson have a way with a pen, but he also had a knack for picking songs. Only a handful on the album are originals, while the rest were carefully laid in between, creating one fluid line. Part of the brilliance of Stranger is its continuity; every song sounds like one of Willie’s, crafted for the occasion and sung by no one else. Everyone from Fred Rose to Bach are covered, and none sound out-of-place. Listeners can concentrate on the songs singularly, or delve into the story and let them play out imaginatively.

There have been other concept albums, both before and after Red Headed Stranger. Unlike the rest, Willie Nelson was able to marry multiple works from varied times and places, flipping the coin on the listener and flipping the bird to the record industry. In a time when country music had out-polished its own turd, Red Headed Stranger proved that you didn’t need the biggest console to make the best record. It’s simple and elegant, stated clean and carrying a time-tested weight. The cowboy, not the one in rhinestone and fringe, but the one who once roamed the plains, had come home to a powerful and lasting redemption.

History has a way of creating pairs. Lovers and enemies, comrades and counterparts. God and the Devil, Romeo and Juliet, ketchup and mustard. We pair our socks, our parents and the salt and pepper shakers. Without detracting from the greatness of the above examples, I would also ask you to consider a lesser known pairing: Billie Holiday and saxophonist Lester Young.

To any jazz enthusiast, this is a no brainer, but to the rest of us musical laymen, a pause and plausible explanation is expected. In short, they were the greats on their principal instruments: Billie is one of the legendary vocalists and jazz stylists, while Lester became the king of Cool Jazz and all that it encompassed. Each had their own unique style, fought for on the road and in the dingy clubs. They spent years travelling with different band leaders, having nightly engagements in clubs worldwide, honing their own musical interpretation. Billie had no training, relying on innate ability, a willing ear and her own inner rhythm. Lester was proficient on multiple instruments, having learned from his father at a young age. He cut his teeth playing in his family’s traveling vaudeville band. They met by chance in the 1930s, as members of Count Basie’s band. In the early 40s, Lester was brought into some of Billie’s recording sessions, and at was no less than a musical marriage.

It’s easy to assume they were more than a musical pair, from the sound of their interplay on recordings. Unlike anyone else, they could read each other’s next move. Her vocal lines melted into his solos, which in turn became the warm underbelly of her melody. They never fought each other, but relinquished willingly. Their own styles were in tune with each other; they both hit behind the beat, nothing punchy or fancy, giving breadth to each phrase.

In “The Man I Love”, Billie’s vocal line gives way to Les’ sax, which plays up the melody without over-playing:

Here’s a radio clip from 1958. Listen to Prez talk about Lady Day:

In “A Sailboat In The Moonlight”, you can hear Lester beneath Billie’s vocal line. He’s buoying her up, never playing over, but supporting every note. It’s two voices in a duet. Later in the song, he comes in with a mellow solo, taking her melody and putting his own spin on it.

The extent of their friendship is clouded at best, and really, it’s irrelevant. Lady Day was always adamant about the fact that they were just friends. Whether or not they were lovers doesn’t matter, because we’ll never know. What we have are the marks they left on wax. Through the music we can hear their friendship; they connected on a cerebral and emotional level that translated in song. Taking similar paths down the road of excess and abuse, their early deaths came less than six months apart. Prez died unceremoniously in a NYC hotel room from alcohol related complications. Lady Day met her end in a hospital room, having been placed under arrest a final time for narcotics charges. Their nicknames are as well-known as their real ones, both being created by the other.

Her ebb fit perfectly into his flow. You can’t ask for a more seamless partnership, in music or marriage. They lost touch for years, but joined up one last time in 1957, for a filming of CBS’ The Sound Of Jazz. There, with a who’s who of other jazz greats, Billie and Lester gave a heart stopping rendition of “Fine and Mellow”. Though the years had taken their toll, both rose to the challenge and worked their magic:

Here’s to jazz’ hippest, coolest couple.

For most, the building located at 6907 Lankershim Boulevard means nothing. Situated in North Hollywood, it’s home to a banquet hall, specializing in Persian and Armenian delicacies. To anyone familiar with the history of country music, it means much more, whether they know it or not. From 1952-1995, 6907 Lankershim was home to, as the LA Times once put it, “country music’s most important west coast club”. Anyone who is familiar with Buck Owens or Merle Haggard, Jerry Lee Lewis or Dwight Yoakam, owes much to that piece of real estate, once known as The Palomino Club.

The Bakersfield sound began with a group of musicians in and around Bakersfield, CA. There, they traded drawling fiddles for driving electric guitars, mingling with the familiar sounds of steel guitar. Musicians such as Lefty Frizzel, Buck Owens and Hoyt Axton contributed to the new style, and all of them made regular appearances at The Palomino. It all began in 1952, when Indiana transplants Bill and Tom Thomas and Amos Emery “Pat” Yeigh began renting the rowdy beer bar. The Thomas’ had come to California with the notion of starting a night club. They chose the Palomino because of the low rent. They built it up over the next four years to be the biggest western club in the San Fernando Valley, attracting the biggest stars of both television and radio. Yeigh sold his interest in 1956 and when the building’s owner ran into financial trouble, he sold it cheap to the Thomas brothers.

During the 50s, the only competition the Palomino had to deal with was the Riverside Rancho, a big country music showcase that hosted the biggest stars of the day. When that closed down in 1959, it made all its stars available to The Palomino. Throughout the 60s and 70s, it’s popularity continued to grow. Aside from the  regular performers such as Buck Owens and Patsy Cline, and stars that just came to hang out, the club was just another neighborhood dive. Opening at 6am everyday, happy hour ran from 8-10am, and continued to be open throughout the day during soundchecks for the evening performances. Patrons could sit through soundcheck and chat up the bands, often getting off-the-cuff performances for free. The dressing rooms carried an open-door policy and almost everyone was up for having company and signing autographs.

As the 60s bled into the 70s, country music bled into long-haired rock. Gram Parsons brought his Flying Burrito Brothers to The Palomino, and other rock acts followed. The Cow Punk movement of the 80s found its home at The Palomino; Rosie Flores, The Long Ryders and Dwight Yoakam helped usher in a new sound, with strong ties to the old days. Sadly, after 43 years of business, The Palomino Club closed it’s doors in 1995. The deaths of the Thomas brothers and other financial struggles brought an end to the club’s illustrious career.

Though Nashville has always been known as the hub of country music, Bakersfield and clubs such as The Palomino gave the smooth countrypolitan capitol an edge of competition. They were vastly different and yet shared similar roots. The Palomino was as important as Tootsie’s and just as rough around the edges. If not for the small neighborhood clubs, country music wouldn’t be what it is today.

There are two things in this life no one can escape: God and family. Whether you believe in a higher power or the power of the blood in your veins, all three are inextricably tied together. No one understood this, and all its undertones, more than Ira and Charlie Louvin. Together, the Louvin Brothers became, and remain one of the most influential duos in country and gospel music. Despite their constantly upturned gaze, they stumbled along the path all mortals find themselves on, only to continue lamenting for something even they couldn’t obtain.

From the beginning, they were musicians. Raised in a household that was always filled with the sounds of the Opry on the radio, or hymn tunes on the piano, Ira and Charlie Loudermilk couldn’t escape their fate. At a young age, they learned how to harmonize with each other, often laying on the floor beneath their parents bed, facing away from each other. In this way, they learned how to follow and exchange sounds without needing to look at each other. They both picked up instruments early as well, Ira choosing mandolin, and Charlie later picking up guitar. Encouraged by their parents, they took up singing in church, developing a sound similar to groups such as The Delmore Brothers, The Blue Sky Boys and The Monroe Brothers.

By the time they were in their teens, they were holding down a regular gig at the county fair in Pisgah, AL, playing on the Merry-Go-Round. This was 1941, making Charlie 14 and Ira 17. Paid $3 each per day, they considered themselves well off for the times. Within a year, they were appearing on a local radio station in Knoxville and Chattanooga, playing alongside The Foggy Mountain Boys in 1943. Their career was put on hold when Charlie was called to serve in WWII. After the war ended, it was back to work; 1947 saw more radio time, and the official change of their last name to “Louvin” (a seemingly more professional name). Branching out for work in Memphis, and continuing their appearances in Knoxville and Chattanooga, they began cutting records. 1947 saw them with Apollo, while 1949 brought them over to Decca. During 1951-1952 they signed on with MGM, but the military tapped Charlie for service yet again, this time sending him to Korea. During all this time, they were auditioning for the Grand Ole Opry relentlessly, only to be rejected at every turn.

Charlie returned home for a second time in 1953 and this time, they signed a deal with Capitol Records, which would remain their label for the next 10 years. By 1955, the Louvins were making a transition from the purely gospel field to a more secularized brand of music. They had their first hit in 1955 with “When I Stop Dreaming”, which was followed by a tour with fledgling legend, Elvis Presley. Tired of being passed over by the Opry, they had Ken Nelson, A/R man at Capitol talk to Jack Stapp. According to Charlie, this is what happened:

“Finally, I called our A&R man Ken Nelson, and asked him if he knew anybody at the Opry and he said ‘I know Jack Stapp, he’s the boss.’ So Ken called Jack Stapp, and I don’t know what was said, but evidently, Jack Stapp stuttered. And so Ken said ‘If you don’t want ‘em, the Ozark Jubilee does.’ Of course, that was kind of a white lie. And Jack said, ‘No, we don’t need anybody else defecting to Springfield, Missouri. So they start this Friday night.’”

The careers of a pair of gospel singing brothers took off with a little white lie…

The 50s rolled along with more success, but with the advent of rock and roll, it became harder and harder to stay on the cutting edge. The music of the Louvins was being passed up by the music of young upstarts like Elvis, Buddy Holly, Jerry Lee Lewis and Little Richard. It was exciting and new. It was born in and bred more of the teenage craze that was sweeping the nation. Country music as everyone new it was becoming old news, and things needed to change. With the release of singles such as “My Baby’s Gone”, “Don’t Laugh” and “Plenty Of Everything But You”, their sound began to change. It was suggested by Nelson that the mandolin be dropped from their act, adding instead a rockabilly feel. This rocked Ira’s already fragile ego, driving him further down into the bottle. It was no secret that his alcoholism was a problem, often showing through onstage. When he was sober, he was unstoppable as a talent, and a great guy to be around. Once he fell off the wagon, it was anyone’s guess. From smashing up his mandolin onstage, to sabotaging the tour with Elvis (calling him a “white nigger” whose music was “trash”), Ira was spiraling out of control with each new year.

Despite moving into the world of secular music, they never let go of their gospel leanings, with many of their songs having a Christian and/or moral message attached. Their most familiar album, and the one with possibly the best album cover of all time, was released in 1959. Satan Is Real is the crux of their beliefs and backgrounds, dipped in their deepest fears of damnation and glazed with a white-hot notion of redemption. The cover is laughable, with the brothers in white suits against a backdrop of rocks and flaming old tires, complete with 12-foot plywood Satan, holding court over the whole mess. Whether or not you agree with the theme of the album, doesn’t matter. Within the grooves you will be subjected to the true sense of what the Louvins had to offer. Their own lives, their own fears, their own failures are laid out in the songs, all under the guise of a story. Ira was the one who designed the cover, Ira was the one who would speak the recitations in each gospel number, never sounding preachy, but never offering the words as a light-hearted joke either. It has been said that he was tormented by the fact that he had forsaken a calling to the ministry for a calling into music. If so, he spent the rest of his life trying to exorcise those demons.

The Louvins continued working together until 1963, when Charlie finally called it quits. After years of fighting, years of watching Ira lose to the bottle, and years of having to clean up his mess, he had enough. Each went onto solo careers, Charlie being much more successful. His first solo hit was “I Don’t Love You Anymore” in 1964, followed by a succession of others throughout the 60s. Ira went on to record one solo album, The Unforgettable Ira Louvin, in 1964. Right after his break with Charlie, he got in a fight with his wife of the time that almost ended his life. In a drunken rage, he attempted to strangle her with a cord, before she grabbed a gun and shot him multiple times in the chest. Surviving the shooting, but not the marriage, they divorced, and after remarrying and releasing his solo record, he died June 20, 1965 in an automobile accident.

The Louvin Brothers helped define a pivotal moment in American music history. They were right there as rock and roll began, taking their traditional heritage and passing it on to musicians such as The Everly Brothers, with their close harmony singing, all the way down the line to Gram Parsons and The Byrds in the late 60s. In fact, a  Louvin song kicks off their 1968 album, Sweetheart of the Rodeo. “The Christian Life” brings the close-knit vocal stylings of Ira and Charlie into a modern arena, with jangly electric guitars and pedal steel, part of an offering widely considered to be the first official country-rock album. Parsons continued drawing from the Louvins in his solo work, recording “Cash On The Barrelhead” for his posthumous release of Grievous Angel.

In recent years, Charlie has continued recording, continued touring, and has been introduced to newer, younger audiences, via shows with bands such as Cake and Cheap Trick in 2003. And so it goes with music that stands the test of time: at some point, the artist creates it and lets it go, all to find out that it has gone beyond what they could have imagined, eventually finding its way back to the artist in the end. That is the stuff of legend.