Willie Nelson:

The Last American Icon?

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As I write this, it's the Fourth of July 2006, late afternoon. It's dark and rainy in Dallas, with predictions of heavier rain to come. North Korea, in an extreme case of penis envy, is flexing their might by firing off long range missiles, and CNN is lapping it up. And me, I'm listening to Willie Nelson belting out "Whiskey River." It seems appropo, in a weltschmerz sort of way.

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Willie Nelson, when all is said and done, expresses a world weariness that strikes a universal chord among anybody who has ever heard him. Nowhere is this more evident than in The Complete Atlantic Recordings. It's pointless, thirty years-plus after the fact to attempt to dissect Shotgun Willie (sure, it was over-produced for the time), or Phases and Stages (country's first concept album)-- hindsight is always 20/20. And despite what latter-day critics are fond of saying, Willie Nelson did not reinvent country with those two albums--he merely returned it to its rightful roots-- the Texas honky tonk that nurtured it.

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That is by no means intended to detract from the significance of those two albums--quite the contrary. What Willie (some icons you just have to refer to by their first name) did on those two albums was revolutionary at the time. He broke free from a bloated Nashville establishment that was content to be a parody of itself, took his music, infused with jazz and blues, with him and set it free in the rolling hills of Austin. This was no mean feat, and without the aid of legendary producer Jerry Wexler (of Aretha Franklin fame), it's doubtful whether he could have pulled it off. Pull it off he did, though, and thus was born Country Outlaw.

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But it's on the previously unreleased Live at the Texas Opry House that Willie Nelson proves himself as a performer and vindicates his desertion from Nashville. This is Texas honky tonk at its best, centerpieced by a kickass rendition of "Bloody Mary Morning" that would do Bob Wills proud. It's not urban cowboy stuff-- it is the real thing. We Texans have always had an affinity for fusing music genres into something distinctly, well, Texan-- and Willie epitomizes that fondness like no other.

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Willie's affiliation with Atlantic was short-lived, but it produced two classic albums. The Complete Atlantic Sessions pays fitting tribute not only to that affiliation but to to the man who singlehandedly made Austin the American capital of all things cool. It's a handsome boxed set, packaged like a box of fine cigars, filled with anecdotes, outtakes, alternative versions and , perhaps most importantly, a slice of American pop culture that has become an integral part of our history.

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But back to the present. Yesterday, Willie bought the Abbot Methodist Church. Why? Willie is a native of Abbot, Texas and the old Methodist church is where he first sang as a child. He just couldn't stand to see it demolished. History is too important. As I write, it's still dreary outside, but Willie's music, tinged with melancholy as it is, gives me hope that we'll get through it. Next door in Fort Worth, Willie is presiding over his 33rd Fourth of July picnic.

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Yeah, we'll be alright....

Johnny Dowd's Cruel Words Ring Uncomfortably True

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Though it's been available as an import since February, It seems only fitting that Cruel Words, Johnny Dowd's fifth album should be released stateside on the Fourth of July. This is a work that is undeniably American, straightforward and unapologetic in its tales of characters who may have slipped through this crack or that, but who refuse to go unnoticed or bowed by their circumstances. They're not necessarily angry, but you're left with the sense they're not resigned to their lot in life, either.

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This is not an album geared to casual listening. From the pounding drum intro of "House of Pain" to the dying strains of "Johnny B Goode," Cruel Words demands the listener pay attention. This is the aural equivalent of film noir, deceptively simple at its surface but laced throughout with complex ambiguities. The characters who populate this landscape, from the disillusioned wheelchair-bound vet of "Praise God" to the newly divorced man residing in "Poverty House" to the dead lounge singer of "Final Encore," may be marginalized, but they hardly represent the underbelly of America. Largely, they have fallen on bad times and are not above the solace of the bottle, but they live with a cynical hope that things that will be alright in the end. "Jesus waits behind the counter/Waiting for the soldiers to return/From the long march to Bethlehem," Dowd growls in "World of Him," as he drunkedly but deftly maneuvers the minefields of the culture wars.

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Johnny Dowd is generally catalogued under the "alt-country" file, one of those catch-all terms, like "progressive jazz" or "new punk, " that sound authoritive (at least to lazy journalists), but have no meaning in reality. While Dowd's lyrics, structurally speaking, are perhaps rooted in a working class base, his music draws inspiration from a number of sources, all of which are distinctly American. With Michael Stark's Hammond B3 organ strains punctuating almost every song on Cruel Words, Dowd (vocals and guitar) and Brian Wilson (drums and bass pedals), along with Kim Sherwood on backing vocals, meld blues to acid jazz, roots soul to Texas swing, surf rock to lounge music, run it through a blender from hell and somehow manage to serve up a concoction that sounds wholly unique. Toss in a little British punk from the Mekons' Sally Timms and Jon Langford on "Drunk" for a dash of spice and Cruel Words emerges as a feast from the bland, albeit an acquired taste.

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Cruel Words may not elevate Johnny Dowd from his cult status--I rather hope it doesn't. It's nice having an old friend over for a beer or two and talking about the people we've run across in life-- especially when the friend sounds like Tom Waits referencing Frank Sinatra as he spins his tales. On the other hand, I want America to hear what Johnny Dowd has to say about our day to day world. I want them to know that a guy approaching 60, who didn't record his first album before he was already 50, can rock with the best of them. Better than most, actually.

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