or, How My Best Efforts Failed to Screw Up a Good Thing
by Barry Chern
Sometimes I don’t get it all at once. That’s why I’ve spent so much of my life listening to records; you can keep going back and picking up more. Connections from hanging around record stores were responsible for my hearing of Michael Hurley in the first place. Not so ironic, then, that my first experience hearing him live wasn’t appreciated until later, sitting alone in the semi-darkness with headphones on. I listen again to the tape of Michael Hurley’s first ever performance in Columbus, Ohio and I begin to think he was right when he said that he’d never sung better. The tape lets me hear things I couldn’t at the time. I never realized that everything about the event was perfect. During preparations, it often felt like everything was wrong. Now I think, this one time, I’ve done something good. It was worth all the work and worry. This was a fine thing for everybody.
Not that I can claim responsibility. Producing and recording the concert wasn’t something I could have done any time, and certainly not under my own wispy steam. A long chain of relationships and a slow accumulation of resources went into making it possible. For a recluse, I seem to be strangely connected at times. Heck, it was only within the last two years that a friend gave me this mastering deck, cast off from his workplace. And, at the other end of the chain, there was the gift in ’72 of Armchair Boogie which introduced me to the elusive Snock phenomenon. It took every one of the intervening 25 years and their stock of kindnesses and coincidences to stage the concert, while I mostly shivered at the wind from things progressing around me.
One of the more crucial elements in the stew was finding myself in the uncharacteristic and largely unsuitable role of concert organizer/promoter. That domino fell when I resumed music teaching after two decades. One of my first guitar students was a nephew of the woman who owned and operated the Columbus Music Hall, an elegantly remodeled firehouse celebrating its 100th anniversary. Usually rented out for functions, it recently got a liquor license and the possibility of more regular shows was in the air. My student thought they should get me and my kind of music in there. I let him break the ice (I’m shy about these things, though never short of fantasies and schemes) and the idea of a Barry Chern concert quickly escalated into a regular series of traditional music variety shows. It took a while but eventually the Roots Cabaret was born, one of my fantasies come to (brief and tenuous) life.
The internet was another essential link, as I got in touch with unknown and far-flung members of my small mythical village. A message on ordering Parsnip Snips directly from Michael Hurley gave me the Bellmeade Phonics’ address. It took almost a year to do anything with the information; not only because I am prone to procrastination, but also I didn’t want to bother the man. I knew he had a reputation for reclusiveness and was probably unhappy with people talking about him on the net.
Early in ’97 I finally tracked down a copy of the U.S. version of ‘Wolfways’. It was exciting to be reunited with that voice after so long. Sure, it wasn’t the same youthful sound of 20-odd years ago, but there was a satisfying maturation and that child-like quality was intact. I didn’t know what I expected, but when you haven’t heard from an artist in a long time there’s no telling what might have happened; particularly the artists I identify with. They tend to live out on the edge and sometimes go over.
I told my friend Michael Allen I had a new Michael Hurley record, and he said suspiciously, “oh, I bet that’s something.” He’d had some vague introductions to Snock, probably lumping it in with crazy stuff we Others try to foist off on him. But, when we listened to Wolfways (after my raving about how it made my world a better place that day) he had me go online and order TWO copies for him. The ball was rolling and I didn’t even see it yet.
About this time I got my first issues of Blue Navigator. I often read it over my afternoon omelet at the “Diner”, and the young waitresses were inexorably drawn to ask about it. Maybe because I couldn’t keep from laughing and crying at times. Always touches me to see someone writing about a non-bankable artist as though they matter. Nice to know someone cares.
The Roots Cabaret, every last thursday of the month, was now into its ninth month. I realized that the next appointed date would fall right ON my birthday. Suddenly a fabulous, previously unimaginable possibility occured to me. Maybe I could get Michael Hurley to appear in my hometown on my birthday! What a present to give myself. I dashed off a missive by Priority Mail (it was already unrealistically late to be planning a show in less than a month) and waited expectantly, if doubtfully.
It was a few days later than I’d hoped when the message turned up on my machine: “This is Michael Hurley in Richmond, Virginia…” Could this really be Michael Hurley on my own phone machine? He sounds like such a geezer! Geez, what if he can’t sing any more? Those Wolfways tracks were recorded a few years back. Well, I knew it must be him when he said, “you call me after 3… and on and through the night… on and through the night, and, uh, so forth.” an obvious lapse into poetry “until around about 7… Then I don’t want to hear no more phone calls no more.”
So I called. In that first conversation I was worried about being a pest, and his general reluctance of tone seemed to justify my concern. He allowed it was kind of hard going around doing shows. But, he talked to his bass player and they’d do it for a price; a bit more than I could come up with. No, he didn’t want to come by himself. I could see my scheme succumbing to reality. Since he’d probably be doing a gig in Chicago in the summer, he could do it then for less money. Talking business was hard, but then Michael told me about the King of the Hoboes, Steamtrain Maury Graham, who lives in Ohio. And we made some connection when I told him how singing his songs had helped me while hitching through Oregon; he’d written some songs hitching on that road. “Maybe it’s about time we got back out there, renew the spirit,” he said.
I made a phone pitch to the administration for the March show, but it was no go. Becky said that sort of thing was a ‘tough sell’. “Maybe” we could do the later date. I knew it really made more sense to wait, but I was still depressed at the next rehearsal of the Sick Ducks, one of the string bands I play with. Band-mate Chuck Levy, one of the few in Columbus who has all the old Michael Hurley records, got pretty excited when he heard my idea and tried to counteract my despair. He said I should sell Snock Stock to all my friends and raise the money. He and Eb, the rest of the band, offered pledges on the spot. Also in the conversation I mentioned the King of the Hoboes, and Eb’s wife Liz said, “Oh, I’ve got something signed by him.” Seems her father picked up Steamtrain hitchhiking in northern Ohio many years ago. Once again the world was small, growing connections like a neural net.
I pointed out that it was a bad investment. No one around here had heard of Michael Hurley, and I’d read how inconsistent and situation-influenced his performances could be. So, we might end up with no customers, or a bunch of irate ones. But the absurdly energetic were not to be disillusioned by the absurdly enervated. Hey, uncertainty is part of the thrill. The additional support made it seem certain that it would happen eventually. The unimaginable took shape.
Columbus has certainly matured around me, but to me it will always be the mainstream cow-town where I grew up futilely dreaming of seeing Pete Seeger or, later, the Holy Modal Rounders; having to settle for the Kingston Trio and Country Joe and the Fish. Things are different now, and plenty of alternative and blues acts come through the local bars. But, still, no one I knew would go beyond the circuit riders to bring in Michael Hurley.
The Snocko News arrived with a hand-scrawled “Barry bring the Boyds to Ohio.” (At this point the idea was to bring a trio, “Doc Snock and the Boyds”: the personnel diminished one-by-one.) Also with a price for that long-sought copy of Parsnip Snips. The mania began to fan outward. My upstairs neighbor Jack was immediately taken with the picture of the Belvederes for sale, and became another supporter of the show. (He called it “The Belvederes Event.”)
Michael called again, a phone message about “working my shop” on his “regular route through.” Sounded easy enough. Well, I guess you got to sketch things out in an idealized way before you fill in the less and more. Once again there were long pauses whenever I’d try to get information. For a date, it seemed the sooner the better, but our usual last Thursday of the month would do. I offered to try for any night that might fit better with his schedule. I got the idea there was no schedule. Well, I was pretty cocky now. Yes! Not only was Michael Hurley coming to Ohio next month, he was basing his world tour around the Roots Cabaret!
I started asking people if they had heard of Michael Hurley, and the answer was always “no.” But, I told everyone they had to see this show, and they seemed to believe me. One of my students went out and bought a disc right away. It was a juggernaut. I was elated.
It was good there was more time to work on publicity; I kept forgetting to factor in my periods of playing statue. I got to work on the press release. I put together reminiscences and Blue Nav besotted bio fragments, producing something probably full of inaccuracies and half-assed mischaracterization but which gave some context, and perhaps communicated some of the awe, gratitude and kinship I feel toward special artists.
Then came the exciting day when Parsnip Snips and Hurley’s press kit showed up in the mail, under a Bellemeade Phonics rubber stamp and my very own name and address in Hurley’s hand. That careful grade-school printing reminded me of something; maybe myself. The pure, green creative moments of Snips put me into a state as close to flash-back as I’ve experienced. Yep, 1968. This unheard earlier sound was like what I’d said in my Hurley appreciation; a little backward prescience. M. Allen showed up to share the experience and was getting more drawn in. We were laughing at first, breathing deeply eventually. “These Michael Hurley records are a good thing”, he summed up. Some temporary malfunctions in us were being fixed.
The press kit (some photos and a crooked xerox of smudgy type-written quotes from impressive sources) gave impetus to my visit to a Columbus Folk Music Society coffee house that night. I made a poster: from the press kit, a piece of foam-core and some thumb-tacks. Pretty durn slick. Propped it up at the admissions table and went on stage to sing a couple of Michael Hurley songs and invite everyone. Most people seemed confused about what I was selling; but the featured act of the night, some women from way down the Ohio River called The Lemon Lilies, seemed excited. (Later I realized they were probably always like that.) Gail was sure that she remembered “I Paint a Design” from her childhood in the 60’s. Days later she discovered she knew it from a recent Leak Magazine disc. Kids today. Before the night was over I believed they would be making the two-hour drive from Portsmouth for the show. State-wide coverage was a reality.
But I knew the media was the real key. Nicholas Hill contacted me with info on Koch employees who might help with promotion. I suggested going for press in neighboring towns, since Hurley’s fans are few but they travel. I began making packets of Blue Navigator articles and ordered more copies of Wolfways for the newspaper and radio station. The fact that he was unknown locally could be a plus: people might get behind the concept of a ‘great but unknown’ and have that feeling of discovery, that excitement of uncovered treasure. Young music biz honchos would see possible hipness points. My plan was to secure a major article in our one daily paper and deep coverage on our “alternative” Public Radio station. I was deeply deluded.
I called the music critic at the Columbus Dispatch and he seemed receptive. I told him I’d be sending clippings and a CD (like he always wanted). He asked for some of the earlier recordings on tape so he’d know what he was writing about. I dug out all of my Michael Hurley LP’s and spent a long night jumping back and forth through time, assembling a varied program of the most essential cuts from ’71-’80. It was intoxicating, but behind my perception of the ineffable greatness of it all I saw uncertainty, a fleeting glimpse of the mainstream. What was a “pop music critic” going to make of all this? I couldn’t guess. What could I expect from people who spent their time sifting through piles of the latest and glossiest and most glib?
The next day John King, one of my guitar students who had been distributing fliers for the show, stopped by. I convinced him to stay and hear a few LP tracks. After the first few notes of “The Werewolf” from Armchair Boogie he said, “yep, he’s great.” I then gave him a tour similar to the one I had put on tape. We marveled together at those sudden, subtle song-clinching lines. He liked the solo stuff particularly and opined that it would probably be best to see him that way. “He takes his time.” Yes. “There’s something almost shamanistic about this stuff.” Yes, exactly, there must be. Listening to these records keeps getting us to a point where we feel we are being healed, despite the low-life nature of the subject matter. That just happens to be where we dwell, and we are lucky there is a dream-talker in the taverns of our non-contiguous village, performing his function because that’s his nature in this invisible society. I’m glad one or two others are seeing this.
Things seemed fine, but there came persuasion to the contrary. The big, groovy, afternoon, alternative, eclectic DJ expressed interest, but not as much as I’d fantasized. When I offered to come on his show to play some records and talk about Michael he said, “We don’t do that sort of thing, in case you haven’t heard.” Well, he does have people come in and play records and talk about stuff all the time, so I didn’t know what “that sort of thing” meant. He elaborated, “Do you know how many people out there with a stack of mouldy old records would like to come in and tell stories about smoking pot with John Prine and what not?” I maintained my decorum enough not to queer whatever crumbs he was willing to throw us: some airplay for “I Paint a Design” and a mention of the concert; a live appearance by Michael if he could make it early enough in the day to accommodate the schedule. But I was furious. When I offered these guardians of the public consciousness a rare, precious gift they acted like I had pissed on their shoes. Ah, cessation of ego, what chance in this lifetime? With old pal bitterness in the house, could more procrastination and depression be far behind? Took awhile to get the posters cranked out, then the postcard mailing almost foundered entirely. Becky never returned a phone call, so I finally went over and got my hands on the mailing list in time to reach people a day or two before the show.
It was about this time that the question of how many people would show up was suddenly reversed. What if I had convinced people to come and the star wasn’t there after all? When Snock broke radio silence and posted to the internet, I was alerted to the fact that his van, Annie Greensprings, was ailing in Rochester and perhaps would not care to make the trip. He said he would try to make it in time for a radio appearance, but, until this transportation matter was cleared up nothing was clear. “yours in Sargasso afternoons…” he signed off.
Time passed. With about 48 hours to go I phoned Richmond for further details. Michael gets very quiet when you press for further details. His story involved waiting for information from various parties before being able to figure out next steps. This was uncomfortably close to how situations unfolded for me. What if he wasn’t able to deal with such things any better than I was? Yikes. He thought he was being loaned a car, then he wasn’t, then maybe, but not till the day of the gig. There was an appointment with a mechanic in the morning. He had booked a train, but it turned out that was to Cleveland, two hours away. I asked him to call me the next day, things would be clearer then.
I awaited further word with increasing agitation. I wanted to help, but had no handle on how. I sent more e-mail with ever wilder schemes and suggestions. I considered driving to Cleveland at 3 a.m. to pick him up. I waited in vain for a call. By afternoon of the day before, it seemed that he would show up just in time to play. After waiting as long as I could, I left another phone message. Then I went to teach my Wednesday night music lessons and came home to fall on the bed, ready to relinquish all attempts at attempting.
I was darn near hooked up to Morpheus’ tug-boat when the phone rang.
“Ah,” I thought, “A call from Rochester at last.” I’m hearing a by-now familiar voice through the haze: “Barry, I’m at the bus station!” In Columbus? Yes. Blood starts to circulate in relief.
Turns out he’d been trying to call since the night before, but whoever wrote my phone number down from the voice-mail message had an ambivalence in their hand-writing about fours and sevens. He’d been calling the wrong area code, somewhere around Boston. Reaching nothing there but vague voice-mail messages and fax tones, there was no way he could even be sure he had a wrong number. So, he set out unheralded into the unknown. Fortunately, he found me in a phone book once he got here. But, it could all have been a cruel hoax.
I call Jack upstairs, and take up his offer to drive even though he keeps an even messier old hulk than I do. Soon we were walking downtown under the high flourescents, past the long double-row of chairs well-stocked with mislaid souls, waiting for recognition. I figure I’ll know Michael, though every photo seems to give a different impression. There’s a split-second when I wonder about this old guy standing up and acting a little crazy. Nope, too old; too crazy. But, the guy sure looked happy to see me. One more aisle along and there he is slumped in a chair, looking not at all crazy but, yes, a bit old. Here he is in some strange wilderness state after a gruelling ride, knowing nobody. A quick handshake, I grab his guitar (after a bit of a double-take… he tells me there’s no handle, with the first sign of a smile I’ve seen), and we’re out of there.
Now what? I’d deferred making accommodation arrangements. Jack is too messy, I’ve got cats. Too late to start calling people. Jack decides to throw in still more financial support and get Michael a motel room. I wondered, “So, you anxious to get to bed, or find some greasy spoon that’s still open?”. “Don’t you have any place to eat around here that you wouldn’t describe as a ‘greasy spoon’?”, asks Snock with justifiable concern. Later, gear stowed, Jack says, “let’s go get some grub”, and Snock inquires, “isn’t there any food that wouldn’t be referred to as ‘grub’?”
In the car, Michael thought he was coming down with something after a long day on and off an over-heated bus. “Uh, oh” I worried. I was somewhere between concern for the show and not wanting it to be an increasingly regretful experience for the weary traveler. We did about half well on the grub front, and Michael Hurley was not so terse as his reputation might suggest. He had some stories about the rest-free housing he had to put up with last time he was in Chicago. So, what was happening in Columbus couldn’t really turn out all that bad. As we left the old campus restaurant and its new mob of grunge kids we spotted a flier, a cartoon of the prosperous, middle-aged Jocko that Snock had sent for the purpose. “When they see that poster, all these kids will be at the show,” said Snock. “Yup,” I agreed with equal fictional assurance.
We found a motel and left the man to get some sleep, but not before admiring and inquiring about his Snock shirt, a cowboy deal, decorated with those famous little bugling-woodpecker music notes. It made for a bit of dimension blurring, seeing this tired, very real man with one foot in the cartoon world. “My old lady made it”, he informed us. “She once outfitted a whole gospel choir. I told her to make it good and heavy ’cause I might be living in it for weeks at a time.”
When the clock radio went off next morning they were talking about Michael Hurley and playing “I Paint a Design.” This was definitely a good omen. On the other hand, I never heard from the afternoon DJ. The wait for the feature article in the paper was also in vain. A short notice appeared the day of the show, a cause for further teeth gnashing. Headlined HURLEY WARNING SIGNS, it was a half-hearted regurgitation of the press release and ended:
“Chern is so taken with Hurley that he made a sampler tape for us called His Wayward Youth, with tunes from 1970-80. On tracks such as ‘Sweet Lucy’, Hurley’s Arlo Guthrie-meets Bob Dylan voice and playful lyrics are palatable. Much of the time, though, he’s an acquired taste. Acquire yours when Hurley performs at 8 tonight.”..
Okay, most good things are acquired tastes. But it sure didn’t read like a compliment, and certainly not designed to sell tickets. “Arlo Guthrie meets Bob Dylan”? Even Snock was annoyed at that one. Well, I’d tried to get my important message out to the public, but couldn’t get it through the high priests. As others made clear to me later, maybe we were better off. I’ve seen many performances buried by the howling masses here in Ohiya, yet our small subsects are prime.
Just as well, also, that we didn’t get the radio appearance, as we kept busy getting ready, running futile missions and chewing the fat. In fact, chewing fat was the first order of business as we walked over to the same diner where I previously sat reading the Blue Navigator. Unfortunately, those interested waitresses weren’t in attendance.
We did, however, run into the Music Hall’s owner and an artist friend. Michael started feeling a little better about the show right then. (“Those are the kind of women I like”, he informed later.) We also got approached by someone who had some cultural knowledge. “Hey, it’s the ‘Have Moicy’ guy!” he enthused. But, when he added “weren’t you a Holy Modal Rounder?” Michael grimaced and said, “I’ll be back in ten minutes” and abruptly turned and walked away. When he returned in ten minutes I remarked on how he hadn’t wanted to discuss the Holy Modal Rounders. He said, “you too?” and walked away again. This time, however he turned back and grinned.
Fortunately, Michael had not broken out in a full-fledged flu. He needed something for a tooth-ache that started on the bus. “I didn’t tell you about that last night, because you were already nervous enough about me getting sick,” he clued me in as we walked through a light drizzle to the drug store. It was great hanging out with Michael for the day. It was just like walking around with a friend. Every old car needed investigation. “Think I should put in a bid on this one?”, he wondered about an orange Belvedere. “Got a lot of keel rot, though.” A pick-axe in the back of a pickup occasioned the recounting of a dream. Of course, I had the intense self-consciousness that always comes when in the presence of those I’ve admired from afar. I struggled not to be too fawning or annoying, especially since he seemed to be a bit grumpy about things. But, once he started giving me blatant good-natured shit about my ways I knew we were okay. As we got to my house I gave him the usual disclaimer about how messy it was. “Well, I ain’t talkin’ to you any more, then” he informed me. (Later, admiring the mansions as we walked around the park he picked out a nice one that he would buy as his stop-over place on his next tour. I wondered if I could move into the back as caretaker or something. “No, because you don’t pick up after yourself. And you’ve got cats. I just want a bunch of French Maids tidying up all the time.”) Inside my place there were plenty of points of common reference. He got in some practice on my piano and got very involved with the Robert Crumb book, “Waiting for Food”, that adorned it. He even showed some interest in my own lithographs.
I got a glimpse of the personal integrity of the man when I stopped at Borders to buy some blank tape. At first Snock just saw the ‘espresso’ sign and expressed interest but when he realized it was a Borders he changed his mind. “This is the place that’s making all the local bookstores fold. I got no business here.” Other solo musicians just see it as a convenient way to book tours.
Well, my fretting about media and sales was probably rubbing off. But once we got to the Music Hall and he saw what a nice place it was he started to get happy. “Look at all the wood. We’re gonna get a good sound in here.” The room is small and lively, and the sound rich and intimate. I went about setting up equipment, occasionally overhearing Michael in the back room singing Fats Domino’s “I Want to Walk You Home.” When I called on him for the sound-check and told him there were people already there he was amazed and delighted. “We’re gonna have a good show,” he said. “Yes,” I agreed, “we are going to have a good show.”
I didn’t get around to warming up before I went onstage for my opening set. I did what I could and it built as it went along. The applause was strong as I walked off, though I was dealing with my own demons at that moment.
Before Michael’s set, I helped man the product table, and even before he played a note we sold most of the tapes and CD’s he’d been able to carry on the bus. Also, I had all my friends bring fiddles for his approval, to assure the presence of The Hog of the Forsaken.
Finally, it was time for Michael to go on. The place had filled up. All of the new fans who had graduated from my living-room school had brought a number of other people along, and some of his old fans, who I had never met, had materialized. “It’s good to be here. So, this is my first time in Ohio… the state of Ohio…” applause…
Quietly and with great concentration he launched into the local hit right off the bat. A few notes into “I Paint a Design” John King turned to me, nodded and affirmed, “he’s great.” As the night unfolded I realized that all of my fears had been absurd, and all of my wildest hopes were being exceeded. The crowd remained hanging on every quiet syllable, and the set just continued to unfold with great pacing for over two hours. If I’d known, I’d have bought more tape. I was amazed, given that I have all of his records, that he did so many songs that I had never heard before. And beautiful new songs at that. Also, seeing him live, I became more aware of the quality of his guitar playing, very varied and focused with special compositional elements for each song. Dr. Levy later expressed part of the appeal for those of us who love traditional music (aside from the fact that Michael shares that love). Snock is like those isolated guys on mountain front porches, the ones who define regional styles by influencing all who live around them. He just carries his region with him. Everybody was floating by the end of the night. The attentiveness of the audience allowed for the quiet magic to really blossom. During ‘Water Train’, which I had requested near the end of the night, I just busted out crying and it turned out I wasn’t the only one.
After the show we drank some wine, relaxed and smiled. Someone said to me, “this must be like a dream come true for you”, and I agreed. “Poor little boy,” said Michael, “dreaming of Hi Fi Snock.” After the crowd thinned the Lemon Lilies took their turn entertaining Michael and me, as we passed around his guitar. At one point Michael said, “I feel happy right now. You know why? Because of all this wood. The wood talks to me…” Becky offered him lodging there at the Music Hall, and we had to break so they could close up. Michael Hurley planned to get on the bus and go back to dealing with his van repairs. I said maybe I’d get up early and try to join him for breakfast, but I knew I probably wouldn’t. I was about to have my first sound sleep in awhile, in my newly transformed Ohio.