Road Cage

http://theband.hiof.no/band_members/australian_band.html

Bloodstream City
Part journal, part fiction.

Saturday, November 21, 2009
My Heart’s Starting to Bother Me Now (A New Base-Line Condition)
Recently I’ve been reading two things: Kerouac and a book called Obedience to Authority, and both have me thinking about fear. Fear of what others think. A fear we put in ourselves, constant, a worm bore into the brain, put in the ear with our own hands.

Obedience to Authority is about a study that was done in the fifties or sixties that tested the extent to which ordinary people will follow the orders of a superior, even in the presence of a moral dilemma, of inflicting pain on a fellow man. They used an actor and the guise of a fake study on learning in which the teacher (the mark) shocked the learner (the actor) with electric shocks at each wrong answer. But the trick was, the shocks, ever increasing in power, were fake. The learner only pretended to be in pain. The plan was to see how many people continued on with worse and worse and worse shocks, go against their own feelings and the begs of the victim (fake). It was scary and depressing to see the ratios. How many people went through with it, hurt another person, a screaming in pain person sometimes complaining of heart condition always pleading to be let out. Only because a man in a lab coat with imagined power said so. This man had no real authority. He only represented a higher order, a system, a man above. For this they threw themselves out, their humanity, their compassion. Sweating, protesting, still they went on, barely prodded by monotone phrases like “there is no permanent tissue damage.” But the ones, the few that stood up, stopped and refused to go on, I was so proud of them. A swelling in the lungs.

Jack Kerouac is a man, a poet, a writer. I read his Book of Sketches, a kind of journal of writings, a transcription of the pads he kept in his pocket over the course of several years describing scenes and moments, and it felt like writing class. I sat with it close to my face unblinking, shocked at the constant command, the honesty, thinking I wanted to soak it in, physically into my pores, the talent, the honesty, the vocabulary, the rhythm, I wanted to have that for myself. I’ve never felt more in my life after putting down a book that I knew the man who wrote it. I know his loves, his lusts, his paranoias, his surroundings, his nineteen-fifties, his cities, his equal compassions and hatreds for the Common Man. Just a journal but it held exactly the reason to write- to talk about the world, document, list what you see, try to find an order to it, say what you think of it, leave a message for after you’re dead, to say I was here, I was angry, I loved, I was here.

From his writing I feel a fearlessness. I don’t know if he displayed that in his real life- I know he traveled, he drugged, he drank, he divorced but also that he hated his life at times, became a slave to his image, his movement, became bitter with the times and fames, died of the drink. But while that means so much to me, it also means nothing. His writing life was not that. It was fearlessness. Never did I feel he held back. He talked about everything. He talked about his brother who died. His sister he disliked. He talked about wanting to be the greatest writer in the world. He talked about his disagreements. About when he thought a friend was wrong. They would all read it at some point, but still he talked. No censor. No fear. Everything he saw and felt. And I need that. I need that. I like style but I love honesty. His writing gave me, more than once, that feeling I search for. The ultimate jaw drop. The shocked eye-open. The Yes, Yes, Exactly, the something that so perfectly speaks to your heart, to your exact sensibilities, to what art can be and how it can shake you and affirm you and connect you to the person who made it in ways that are godly, soulful, impossible to replicate. I’ve gotten that from my favorite bands- Heresy by Nine Inch Nails, human screams used as an instrument while combining acoustic guitar with broken keyboards. The Great Destroyer, a song becomes an electronic cluster-crumble instrumental. Forty-Six and Two by Tool, the sound of that voice and that filter-up guitar sound as it comes back in. Bjork, buying the greatest hits after so many years of thinking about it, sitting on my bed pressing play and just being shocked and sad it had taken me so long but happy to have the short-lived honor of experiencing it for the first time, the reason I always wish I could erase my memory of an album I know too well, heard too many hundreds of times, wishing I could listen to it virgin-like. The very first and perfectly pitched still melodic effortless scream from Karen O the first time we saw the Yeah Yeah Yeahs live. Deftones, Elite, “When you’re ripe you’ll bleed out of control”, so heavy and filtered and wrenching. Portugal. The Man, a track name I can’t remember, possibly AKA M-80 Wolf, a song that sounds like Castlevania and 8-bit and southern and electronic and dark and smart and right. Muse, singing of the Apocalypse, being so falsetto calm and then suddenly Stockholm Syndrome hits. Creep by Stone Temple Pilots, the most perfect acoustic. Various moments of Radiohead and their paranoid androids, Pink Floyd and their walls and childhood fevers and numbness. Marilyn Manson when he couldn’t be stopped. Saul Williams singing U2 through Trent Reznor’s sound.

And movies. The long shots of Children of Men. Forrest Gump driven to punch by jealousy and protection. Edward Scissorhands driven to kill by the same. And books. Laughing at Fear and Loathing, smiling while reading but not a popcorn smile, not a sugar smile, a real one, a dark one. Opening House of Leaves by Danielewski and seeing what a book can be. Same for Atrocity Exhibition by Ballard. Perfect sentences of Denis Johnson in Jesus’ Son and his journalistic Seek. Simple sadness from Amy Hempel. Surreal degradation and depravity from Craig Clevenger. Jack Kerouac, of course, everything is poetry. A quote from On the Road before I even read it- the burn, burn, burn, and before that Scattered Poems and after that Sketches and just eyes open.

This is what I want. I want to leave behind fear, shake it from my fingers. I want to earn a living doing this but it would mean nothing without the other. I know I’ll probably never be one of the greats but I’ll be happy to be one of the goods trying to be one of the greats, not selling out, not giving in to the crush of the Franchise, the Pander. No hovering over keys, just saying it. No holding back for marketing. Never putting sales before anything, never becoming a cartoon, a joke, an embarrassment. I try not to be Elitist but I get honestly truly disgusted by what I see on the outside, when I read around other people outside my circle, my type, and I hear things like “Reading? Good for you!” like it’s impressive. The worst was a woman saying “I can’t stand reading,” such contempt in her voice, like “Books. Fuh.” and what I want to say is, “I appreciate your opinion but you’re the one who shit out two babies for a man you don’t even entertain the idea of marrying and actually laugh at when I bring it up. That is your life and you will die dumb.” Like Bill Hicks when he said a truck stop waitress asked him through gum, “Why you readin’? and he said “Wow, why? I never thought about why. I guess first and foremost so I don’t become a waitress in a truck stop.” And the only one who reads at work, excitedly bragging to me that she’s reading another one from The Five People You Meet in Heaven Guy, her need to impress me, sitting obviously in her car with it when I pull up and pointing to it like “see?” and this is the best of them on a scale of readers. The rest don’t have time. Don’t have time, yet “Did you catch the nine hour season finale of Dancing with Surgery Victims?” but this is also the reason to write, the signal, to find other people like me, share something with them, give them another shield for The Fight. And maybe this never works, maybe in person it will never be an honest, human connection. But if I can have one on paper at least that’s something, and it can only be had by fearlessness, an avalanche, the ability to say it all and mean it all, honesty, fearlessness, pride, and that’s what the poets and doctors are saying.

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Q&A with Buddy Cage of the New Riders of the Purple Sage
Jud Conway 6/10/2009 | Comment on this Article | EMail This Article

KindWeb recently chatted with Buddy Cage, longtime pedal steel guitarist of the New Riders of the Purple Sage. The New Riders are currently touring in support of the critically-acclaimed Where I Come From, their first studio album in twenty years.

1. KindWeb would like to congratulate you and the rest of the band on completing the new disc. It’s a fantastic record. There is an obvious high caliber of songwriting throughout Where I Come From. Many of the David Nelson/Robert Hunter collaborations are instant classics. The additional material from other members of the band is also topnotch. What are some of your personal favorites?

Thank you… thanks very much! It’s a blast. It was as much fun to record as ANY one I’ve worked on. I like “Ghost Train Blues,” “Barracuda Moon,” “Blues Barrel,” “Carl Perkins [Wears the Crown]” a lot. I dug what I played… no more than one or two takes.

2. We understand that one of your motivations for leaving the original New Riders was the lack of new original material entering the band’s repertoire. Fast forward to the release of Where I Come From; what is Buddy Cage’s impression of having much-anticipated new NRPS songs to promote and interpret on the stage?

After eleven years…well, it’s everything for me. I’m not a songwriter like the other four guys. My original contributions come in the form of ‘serving the song’ with my steel interpretations. The interviews are driving me crazy; [Dennis] McNally has set up three, four, five of them a day. I put SO much into them [that] it really drains me after a week. But hell, Where I Come From is being played everywhere and I have received requests from SO many enthusiastic [disc jockeys], fans, writers… it’s exciting again! As to live performances, I create new stuff every night. I’m alive again!

3. Did you keep in touch with John [Dawson], David [Nelson], and other members of the original lineup after the band’s dissolution?

Of course, I call John [Dawson] every couple months down in Mexico. He doesn’t respond well to more than the occasional calls. He’s retired… he likes to keep tuned in on what we’re doing with his songs, but not an everyday thing. There are no other [surviving] members of the originals; Jerry [Garcia], Dave Torbert, and Spencer [Dryden] have picked up their hats and coats and split. They’re not with us anymore… in the corporal sense.

4. The current incarnation of the band sounds like it has been playing together for a long, long time. You guys have really gelled over the past four years. How does this lineup compare to your recollections of the ’71-’80 NRPS?

The comparison is in the CD. It’s your perception that counts. I can get to many other places with these guys. I play differently myself… with these newer situations and materials.

5. We had the pleasure of interviewing Michael Falzarano after his recent CD release and were delighted to see his name listed as both band-mate and producer on Where I Come From. What was it like working with him in the producer’s chair on the new disc?

Well, there was no such word applied as “work.’ [It] didn’t happen that way. Quick blasts in each little studio we used… one [or] two tunes… no more than one, two takes! In a matter of four or five sessions, we had ‘er done! It was fantastic! Michael is always an easy producer. He just lets the musicians take it out. “One more take? Oh, sure, just one more!”

6. Looking back over the band’s storied past to the present, who do you see as primary influences on the band as it exists today?

Everyone! …From James Brown to Bill Monroe, from Cindy Lauper to Ian Tyson, from the Tuvan Throat Singers to the Grateful Dead, from Led Zeppelin to Bukka White, from Miles Davis to Beethoven. Inspiration comes in all forms.

7. Off the top of your head, name a few of the relative newcomers on the music scene that have caught the attention of the New Riders.

Ryan Montbleau, Boris Garcia, Donna Jean [Godchauex]’s Band, Bob Dylan always… especially now with Robert Hunter co-writing.

8. Notwithstanding the cheap play on words, where do you see the New Riders heading after the Where I Come From tour?

No direction known… More shall be revealed.

Mr. Cage…

Correct me if I’m wrong, but having just seen the “the festival express”, that was u in one of the final jams onstage with… everybody.  I might have been 13 at the time, but we all heard about it (underground radio) and thought we could hitchhike,easily enough and catch that train from Minnesota. We were wrong. Yeah, there was no way anyone could have hitched a ride on that train - it was a private coach.

Uh, Todd - you seem to be referring to the Ian & Sylvia segment - CC Rider Blues, it’s called. Sylvia singing the lead. Tyson’s wearing the cowboy hat.

That was done at the Calgary, Alberta show. You perceived it as a ‘jam’ - okay, I guess there’s some validity to that. The personel in that shot (r. to l.) included myself, Garcia, Ian, Sylvia downstage singing lead, Delaney Bramlett, Jim Colgrove our bass player, and Amos Garrett our genius guitarist with the Strat. Onstage as well, were Danko, Bonnie Bramlett, Kreutzmann also…

As we took our stage positions, Jerry asked Ian if he could sit in  - Ian knew full-well Jerry’s relevance and warmly made room. Gar wanted to stand next to me cause he was crazy about pedal steel (obviously!) and wanted to see what I was doing. He had asked me to replace him on steel w/NRPS (relatively, newly formed at the time) back a few days at the Toronto show of the train tour and was still sizing me up. Plus he was FULLY a fan of Ian & Sylvia, knew all about the recent album we had recorded in Nashville and just wanted to be in on what we were cooking up at the time.

Btw, there’s really some neat attachments to that stage moment - you’re a writer, you should get a kick out of some of this…

Look at Gar, he starts chuckling - reason? Well, he just was hearing Amos playing the kickoff to our CC Rider (a stunning intro!) over stage-left and was looking at me like, “W-h-h-a-a-a-t the fuck???” You’ll notice me shrugging my shoulders indicating, “How the hell should I know how he does it??!”

Right after, GD played then Janis closed. I had to stay around to grok this whole production whilst Tyson was urging me to ‘get the fuck moving’ - he and Sylvia were sitting in the rent-a-short down on the tarmac beside the stage. I waived him off and said I’d take a cab back but brought my steel down and placed it in the trunk. Amazingly, he stayed! Wouldn’t leave me behind.

On the drive back, we had a formiddable crew in that car: I & S up front, me, our drummer (martial arts student) and one of the larger, meaner GD roadies Sonny Heard from Pendleton, OR. We were being dogged by a car containing 4 drunk, young Canadian cowboys making catcalls to Sylvia all the way back to the hotel (Calgary Inn). Every stoplight, these pricks pulled up besdie us and got in Tyson’s face, to which he calmly invited them to a street fight, conveniently just outside the hotel (where the cops were being summoned as we got out of the car).

As in a Hollywood script, I called to Ian as we came to a full stop, “The KEYS!” He, in SloMo tossed them over his shoulder while he was getting out, they magically sailed right into my left hand, I beat it out to get into the trunk, open my steel case and got a purchase on one of my guitar legs! One of those babies can pack more of a whallop than a skinny, 120 lb. hippie can. And when I spun over to the fight, fuck - it was over! Mere seconds. The 4 young cowpokes were unconscious, spread over the street!

Here I was, armed, full of adrenalin, blood-in-my-eyes and no place to go!! Janis had just arrived, saw my sorry state and invited me up to her room for a drink, ostensibly to settle me down and tell her what happened. It was the last I would see of her - she was gone, three months later.

Ian called me up in her room and asked me to come by his, for a moment. Seems like he had broken his hand in the fistfight - Sylvia and I had to call the house physician and get him to a hospital. The concern was that we had to shoot a pilot for an TV show in Toronto the next day! Ian’s a tough cookie…

Then they sent me back to Janis’ room…

Buddy