Janiss Garza - Black Crowes: Freedom Fighters

[Because I preferred interviewing new bands I rarely did cover stories for RIP. I just identified more with the rawness of up-and-coming groups. Plus rock stars tend to keep everyone at arm's length and it's harder to step into their inner world, especially if you're a journalist. By inner world, I mean their heads — I couldn't care less about their inner circle or sanctum or whatever you want to call their group of cronies. So when I did a cover story, it was usually on a band I'd backed from the start. Thus it was with the Black Crowes. I loved their debut album, Shake Your Money Maker on first listen. The outspoken, opinionated Chris Robinson sounded like the kind of musician I would especially enjoy talking to. And it turned out I did enjoy him quite a bit. I actually have a Chris Robinson story I'll have to save for another time because the feature below is so long. Suffice it to say I messed up an opportunity to get to know him better before he got famous. By the time I did this story, the band was swept up in their success and while they seemed to deal with it as gracefully as could be expected, I hated all the hubbub that surrounded me during this particular trip to New York. I don't recall what I did once I was finished interviewing the band — after I went downtown, I probably hung out with Roger Ericson and Danny Nordahl from the Throbs, who by then had formed a new band (at least for a while) called the Vibes.]

Frenetic was the word for it. Black Crowes publicist Suzan Crane rushed me down the steps of the Plaza Hotel in New York, in search of the limo that was supposed to take us to soundcheck. We ran into Chris Robinson on the curb, his bulldogs panting happily at his bare feet. He smiled at us and, with a bit of easygoing Southern politeness, remarked, "My, don't you ladies look—" but a tourist interrupted him before he could finish the compliment.

Without further ado Suzan steered me toward three limos. It took several tries before we found an empty one. We'd barely had time to catch our breaths when the Crowes' manager, Pete Angelus, and Def American general manager Mark Didia joined us. The limo took off, headed for the Beacon Theater where, in a few hours, the Crowes were to play the first of four sold-out nights.

The three of them discussed the last-minute details of the last-minute after-show party that was to be held later that evening. As the limo threaded its way through Central Park, I looked out at the peaceful scenery. I think I was the only one in the car who noticed how prettily the late-afternoon glow gilded the trees. Everyone else was too busy.

A few minutes later we arrived at the Beacon and rushed up the steps to the third-floor production office. The phone was ringing.

Suzan sat in a folding chair, the phone glued to her ear. The Xerox machine was running nonstop, spitting out guest and let lists. More phones rang. Laminates were distributed. Chris' dogs came bounding in, cheerfully snorting and sniffing around the office until the assistant tour manager corralled them and herded them one floor up to the Crowes' dressing rooms. I hid in a corner and watched as bassist Johnny Colt helped a few crew members carry some metal bars down to the stage. They were grinning and laughing. Another day, another show — no big deal. Chris sauntered in. "Hey, I need 70 tickets for some cousins of mine in Tennessee," he announced, but everyone was so intent on their duties, the joke went virtually unnoticed.

The whole scene was enough to raise anyone's blood pressure — it certainly did mine — but the Crowes appeared blithely unaffected by it. That crazy New York Monday gave me hope that the band I'd championed for almost three years was more capable of handling platinum-level success than most. Earlier in the day, in the midst of juggling schedules and general, all-around mania, I'd managed to chat with Johnny, drummer Steve Gorman, guitarist/ songwriter Rich Robinson and new guitarist Marc Ford — only God knew when my talk with Chris would happen. Everything so far indicated that the Black Crowes were the same, genuine, down-to-earth, opinionated, shrewd, arrogant bunch I'd met back when Shake Your Money Maker was just another advance cassette sitting on my perpetually overflowing desk. Richer, wiser, more loved and more vilified than in January of 1990, but also just as real.

You see, I'd had my doubts. For the past year or so, and especially since the release of the group's record, The Southern Harmony and Musical Companion, I'd been hearing reports of how temperamental and difficult the guys were. I figured out later that most of the complainers just didn't know them at the beginning — either that, or they weren't paying attention. The Crowes were never ones to play up to music industry politics and, let's face it, one man's integrity is another man's poison.

Take Rich, for example. His face shines with youthful innocence and beauty, and he's clearly the heartthrob of the band. When he opens his mouth, however, it's another thing altogether. His words are bound to make a lot of people uncomfortable — especially fortysomething record execs.

"The people who are in charge of the music industry today were the people who were young in the '60s," he told me earlier that afternoon, "and look how shitty it's been for the past 15 years, since these people have been in charge. They dropped the ball — in all aspects of life. I mean, the hippie generation turned out to be the most materialistic, asshole, me-generation in the history modern civilization! They might not take credit for being hippies, but they'll take credit for stopping a war they didn't stop. They'll take credit for the great things that happened back then, but they won't take credit for the shitty things they do now."

We were sitting at a table in my hotel room. I'd tried to mellow the snooty décor, with its high-falutin' Impressionist reproductions, by burning some incense and lighting a couple of candles. Naturally, the moment I'd done that, the Crowes' camp decided it would be easier to bring Rich down to me rather than vice versa. Rich is the earthy, pragmatic anchor of the band, and I hoped he hadn't decided I was some latter-day hippie journalist. At least I was too young to fit into his most-disliked category — "the journalists and critics trying to keep ahold of the '60s, patting themselves on the back, trying to relive those glory years," is how he put it. "I don't think it's objective journalism," he continued. "That issue's been run into the ground, journalists not getting it, but then they didn't get Led Zeppelin, they didn't get Aerosmith, and they didn't get the punk movement. They probably still don't get Prince."

Rich also pointed out that even a critics' favorite, like Nirvana, can be victims of the press and the music-business machine. "Nirvana has been played out by the media," he claimed. "Not to take anything away from them — I'm sure they're cool guys; I thought the record was good — but this band, who never expected to do anything, became huge all of a sudden. They think they're such rebels, but meanwhile everything they do is used and manipulated by the industry to make the industry money."

While the Crowes are fully aware that they're not immune to this circus, they feel that their fans ultimately rise above it. "I think a lot of our fans are heady people, and they can make their own decisions whether they like something or not and not take some asshole's word for it," Rich explained. "What we put into our records is ourselves. Nothing more, nothing less than ourselves. And that's a pretty heavy thing to give to five million people."

"Yeah, I know!" he affirmed. "When that happens, it's something special from us to them; and that's the same thing with our show."

If anything, Johnny and Steve were ever more emphatic about that when I was hustled into Johnny's room for their section of the interview. The Plaza was beginning to feel more like a dorm than a world-class hotel — albeit a dorm with room service. "Everyone's in this band to get up and play," Steve insisted, his large physique a bit out of place in the decorator chair. "We go onstage on time — it's just a fact. That's what the day is geared around."

"Yeah," Johnny added, his black outfit and hair looking even more incongruous next to the pink rug, "and the only way to meter yourself is if you care about your playing. Everyone in this band cares about their playing. You've seen the band, and you'll see it tonight; we work hard to play great music. We let people bootleg the shows if they want, because there's no other way for people, in the long run, to realize that every night we go up and try to play really good. I mean, videos and photographs and publicity — you know, like getting arrested and wrecking cars and all that shit — that's not the part that stays. If the music's not there, then all that's meaningless."

The two of them stressed the importance of keeping their heads on straight despite the band's sudden success. "There's no games," Johnny insisted. "That's how it becomes a trap, when you start buying into thinking you're this and you're that. The only way you can keep making good music is to be honest, 'cause as soon as your band's hip, no one tells you, 'That sucks,' or 'You played shitty that night.' No one tells you that anymore."

For a long time the band didn't even realize how enormous they'd become. "I guess a lot of bands who have a first successful record don't also spend 20 months on tour," Steve explained. "We had our heads in the sand for 20 months. I think a lot of people take time off and try to let it all hit them gradually, so they can grow with the success; but we just kept gigging and, all of a sudden, it just goes BOOM! 'Wow, I left here two years ago, and now I'm back, and everything seems to be different.' When it hits you like that, it's almost like it doesn't exist."

The one member of the Crowes who was able to grasp the band's success as it was happening was Marc. That's because he wasn't a member at the time. "I'd talk to Chris when he'd be on the road," the guitarist told me back in my room (interview central), "and me, being on the outside, I could sort of gauge their success. Chris didn't realize what was going on or how monstrous it became, being on the inside." He shrugged. "To me, I'm just playing with some friends. It's not really that much different. I'm just staying in better hotels and riding in nicer cars."

Chris and Marc met each other about three years ago, when Marc fronted Burning Tree. "We got promotional copies of each other's records," he grinned. "We hooked up in L.A. and got along really well. Then we got a chance to open up for them."

Although Burning Tree didn't last, Marc was recognized as something of a guitar hero around his hometown of Los Angeles. A lot of Hollywood locals wondered how he would fit in with a band where no one musician stands out. "Guitar hero's kind of a bullshit sort of thing," he shrugged. "It's about adapting to the music that's done, and it's not really that big of an adaptation."

Even though Marc had been in the band for less than a year, he was clearly just as frustrated with the press as the rest of the guys. I could sense his annoyance about the hoopla surrounding the pot festival the band headlined in Atlanta. "The pot festival was a gig," he asserted. "It was a nice Saturday in the park, and we had a gig with a lot of people, and now this whole tour turns out to be a pot tour. It's not about the pot, it's about the music. It's just people taking what they think they see and blowing it out of proportion. It's too bad."

That night, when the stage lights went up at the Beacon, the Crowes' emphasis on the music was evident. Marc had said that being in the Crowes was "very much like we're on a pirate ship," and that's the vibe that came across. The band's freewheeling, rebellious attitude entranced the packed theater. Chris introduced the jam that starts "Thorn in My Pride" by announcing, "Those of you in the media who are bored might want to trade your tickets with some of the people up there." With that, he waved towards the cheering fans up in the rafters. During the chorus of "No Speak No Slave," when he sang, "And you, you want to be free/ Don't speak like a slave to me," a rush went through the audience that showed they knew exactly where the Crowes were coming from.

Wednesday morning at the Plaza I woke up and retrieved The New York Times from in front of my door. I tore into the arts section in search of the review of Monday's show. To my disappointment, I found yet another critic making '60s-retro accusations. Among other complaints, she said that the jam in "Thorn in My Pride" "went on for so long, one rather hoped for an MTV-style commercial break." I wondered if she'd been listening at all to Chris that night. In fact, I wondered if she'd even seen the same vital, spirited show as I had. I made a bet with myself that Chris would have something to say about it when he showed up at my door.

His long-awaited knock came, but before the singer even had a chance to open his mouth, a voice barked from over his shoulder, "Are you using incense in there?"

It was the hotel's fire-safety department, responding to complaints of something burning. I was glad that as soon as I finished with Chris I was headed downtown where I belonged. Maybe the Crowes could manage to keep a downtown attitude in an uptown world, but it was way too much for me. Chris, I found out later, had his own problems: Before the end of his stay, his dogs chewed up the wires to his electronic door lock, and the hotel management had to break the door down to get him back into his room.

The fire guy dealt with, Chris immediately blurted out, "Did you see our review in The Times? Really nice, eh? Talk about someone who misses the point by a million miles!"

Tour manager Mark Botting ordered us up some cappuccinos, then left. Chris sat down at the table and continued his harangue. "I've never seen anybody who would admit that they wanted the commercial, that they didn't have the mental capacity to understand something spontaneous. It's sad that people don't want to let music be that thing in their lives that's living. That's why we have to do it the way we do it, and that's why we play theaters instead of, you know, the big huge gig; because the people who get it are ten time as important as the people who don't."

I mentioned that I'd heard that the Crowes had been courted to open for the Guns N' Roses/ Metallica stadium tour.

"Yeah, they wouldn't quit calling us about it," Chris confirmed. "But why should we go out and play 40 minutes? Why would I ask some of my people, who are some Guns people and some Metallica people, to waste their money on a little 40-minute set of us? Like, please, man! I don't play 40 minute sets anymore for fuckin' anybody. That's not an ego thing; that's a rapport thing with our people."

That rapport, Chris explained, is the reason for the pot references in the band's show — the marijuana-leaf backdrop that reads "Free us — No narcs," for example. "That's like saying, 'Hey, are you having a good time?'" Chris smiled. "Sometimes in order to break a taboo barrier, you have to throw it up there. And you know, it's for weeding people out. The people who have a problem with that — they should!"

Chris is frankly beyond the point of bothering with a lot of the controversy the press creates around the band. If people want to talk about, say, his fights with his brother, fine. He and Rich know the score. "We get into fights because we can," he told me. "I mean, as much as I love Johnny Colt like he's a brother, I don't think our relationship could stand the abuse that Rich and I give each other. I don't think my relationship with any of the women in my life, with my parents — anyone — could. We know what we have. We have telepathy. We have an ESP. We also have that emotional cushion that it's okay to slug each other, because we know it means this much to what our relationship is and what it means to write songs together.

"The only reason controversy comes into play is because I don't think there are many opinions that are that strong. I think why it shocks people is because we flat out have no pretensions. I'm not looking at this as a politician. I don't run off and ask my publicist, 'What's politically correct in this situation for me say?' If I am crazy enough to write songs and put them on record and go through the channels that it takes to get them to people, then I have to respect those people, you know — people who buy the records, not the people who've got their comp tickets, not the people who get free records. I don't get free records. I don't call Warner Brothers and get the catalog and mark off what I want. They send me the catalog every couple of months, 'Whatever you want.' I throw it away. I buy my own records."

I saw Chris buying records once, and it was intimidating. That was two and a half years ago, when the Crowes were opening for MSG. A few of us stopped by a small record store after a soundcheck in Ventura, California, and I'd never heard of the reggae artists he was asking for. Ever since then, I've balked whenever I see the Black Crowes compared to the Rolling Stones or the Faces. For one thing, it's not relevant to the Crowes' fans — I mean, how many of you reading this have even heard a Faces tune? How many of you have a Stones record in your house that you bought, not your parents? To discuss those bands in the '90s is to deny a whole generation the right to its own music. Besides, the Crowes have other influences. Among those the band mentioned while I was around were Sly and the Family Stone, Cajun music, Mississippi Fred McDowell, gospel... not to mention life itself. That's the sort of thing a person feels in the music, not something that can be subjected to pat analysis.

You can sense what's gone on with the Crowes over the past few years by listening to their two records. As Chris explained it, the songs on Shake Your Money Maker "are definitely more Friday night, raisin' hell sort of songs, whereas this record [Southern Harmony] is the Sunday morning after the storm record. I think it has a lucidity that the other record doesn't." Southern Harmony's lyrics are a recounting of the adventures the Crowes had, and turmoil that surrounded them, as they defiantly braved their way to the top. "At least for me, it makes a little more sense when I take the titles away and read all the lyrics as one long piece," Chris said. "It's just more open ends; it's more there for your interpretation." With a wry grin, he added, "Sometimes, you know, I listen to 'Bad Luck Blue Eyes' or 'Sometimes Salvation' and think they're really positive songs."

There was a knock at the door. Thank God it was only Mark Botting, coming to hustle Chris off to a photo shoot.

"Are you gonna pick me up by the scruff of my neck?" Chris asked him. As he stood, he graciously apologized for taking so long to get around to our chat.

"Believe it or not, maybe you can sort of understand how ridiculously hectic this town is!" he declared.

Comments (1) >>

Very well-written...
written by Kerry, April 23, 2008

I'd love to write something prophetic, but I'm not as strong a writer as you. smilies/grin.gif

It's a very well-written article. Thank you for sharing.

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