Veteran roots rocker, Modern Don Juans to disband

With apologies to Alejandro Escovedo, David Childers has finally had enough of more miles than money.

After four solid years of hardcore troubadouring with the Modern Don Juans, the 56-year-old songwriter and front man for one of the Southeast's best roots-rock outfits says he's retiring from public performing after a handful of December dates.

Childers cites a desire to spend more time at home with his wife, the growing Social Security disability law firm they run together, other creative interests, poor pay, health concerns and the grind of touring as reasons for pulling the plug.

"I got real disillusioned with 'the road,'" he says. "I met a lot of great people and have been well-accepted in a number of places, including overseas. It's been very rewarding, but I just don't feel like there's any place else left for us to go. The reality is that we're playing traditional-based roots rock 'n' roll in a time when they're just isn't a lot of interest in that."

The irony, which Childers concedes, is that in recent years the band's career arc has been on a modest upswing: three No. 1 records on the Euro-Americana charts (2003's Room 23, 2006's Jailhouse Religion, and this year's Burning In Hell); opening slots on several tours with The Gourds; radio play on XM and Sirius; a 2005 Mountain Stage appearance; and successful festival appearances in Europe the last two years. But any further growth was probably handcuffed by the staid and stale Americana machine here, which ignored the band as though they were an effete disco act instead of honest-to-goodness country-hued rock 'n' rollers.

"At first it was hard for me to accept that there was no place for me in country or Americana music," he says. "But I really don't know if I would want that anyway. It's mostly a hard, bitter game out there. It's extremely competitive and there are a lot of people who'll do anything to get a leg up on you. That's just something I don't want to fuck with."

Bassist Mark Lynch says Childers informed the band several weeks ago that he was ready to quit performing live, and described the disbanding as amicable. Still, given the band's recent modest successes, the decision wasn't without its surprise factor.

"I don't completely understand it, but on another level I do," Lynch says. "We have loads of fun when we're playing, but we don't always get paid what we need to get paid, and a lot of times that falls to him to make up the shortfall -- or at least he feels that it does.

"But we've all been up-front with everything, and it is what it is; there are no hard feelings at all. I'd show up and play any time he asks."

It's not the last we'll hear from Childers or his band mates. He says he plans to continue writing songs and recording with the band's gifted guitarist, Randy Saxon, and there are plans to release a recording of DC&MDJ's live tent-revival/hoe-down gigs. Drummer Robert Childers, his son, is now playing with Charlotte bands 2013 Wolves and the Trouble Walkers (ex-Hot Rod Grease Lightning), where he joins Lynch.

But the end of an era doesn't pass without a bittersweet look back. Childers says he was moved to tears during a recent gig -- the band's last -- in Cleveland, a city that embraced them as their own. He cites their Mountain Stage appearance in Charleston, W.Va., as an obvious highlight, as well as all those nights when "you've got a whole room dancing and jumping and they don't want you to quit," he says. "At the same time, there's this thing in me that says, 'you know, I don't want to play this song again.'

"Who knows, in a few years I may go out and perform again, but it's going to have to be for what I think I'm worth, because I think I'm a worth a lot more than what I've gotten. If anybody disagrees with that, they certainly can, but they can kiss my ass, too, because they haven't put the work in and the time and made the sacrifices I have."

For long-time fans or recent converts, you've got a few more opportunities to catch some of the best old-school rock 'n' roll going: Friday, Dec. 14 at the Bohemian Café in Greenville, South Carolina; Thursday, Dec. 20, at the Americana in Pineville; Saturday, Dec. 22 at the Comet Grill; and Saturday, Dec. 29 at the Loft at Rodi in Gastonia.

They rented a farmhouse in the country. There were large spaces between houses. The longer they lived there, the more unreal the houses in the flat distance became. Even after they met the people who lived there, accepted their offering s of produce, pies, advice, the houses kept the feeling of a place imagined or only read about. The people were like people in a book who came in and out of  scenes, making little impact or impression.

More real were three blueberry bushes in the front yard, out where the sun light fell heavily. The earth was sandy. That and the big sun made it very hot in that spot, but the blueberry bushes seemed to like it. They produced buckets full of big, juicy berries. It was easy to reach among the branches, to feel something good and right coming up from the cruel earth.

And he very much liked the pancakes, pies, cobblers his wife made; or just reaching into one of the bowls  in the refrigerator that stayed full of berries, digging deep and coming back with a handful to shove into his mouth. Many peaceful, loving days and nights passed in the house.  Many blueberries were grown, picked, eaten.

Once a lady came to visit, a friend not known for too long, but well liked by him and his wife. They had shared a jolly evening of jokes and laughter. Later that night, he went to the bathroom which was near the lady's room. He heard her whimpering, sobbing. He went inside to check on her and sat down beside her on the bed. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Nothing. I'm Okay," she said. "You were crying," he said. "Don't worry about it," she said. "Okay." He left and got back into bed with his wife.

The next morning when he woke up, he was happy to see that  his wife had cooked blueberry pancakes. She and the lady were at the kitchen table having a friendly chat. He sat at the table with them. His wife handed him a plate of pancakes. As he took the first bite, the lady asked him if he had come into her room last night. She seemed offended. He said he had, that he had heard her crying and came in to check on her. She did not seem to believe him. The atmosphere in the kitchen became uncomfortable. They all ate in silence. He looked at the blueberries and they made him sad.

The lady left later, after awkward good byes and good lucks. They never saw or heard from her again. He and his wife discussed the incident, but only briefly. She seemed not much effected by it. Soon after a new job took him and his wife away from the old farmhouse. They moved to a city where there were few places to grow blueberries, but they sold big, frozen bags of them in stores. For the rest of his life, he ate blueberries and loved them, but every time he saw them, or felt their delicious popping in his mouth, he felt that same sadness he had felt in the farmhouse.  Still, he ate the blueberries. Doctors and nutritionists  told him how good they were for a person, that they were the perfect food. He needed that.  Sadness was commonplace. Regret was constant. These were truths he learned over time. Goodness came simply, and just as often.

-DC

Lost Dogs
-in memory of Don Swann

They are only lost to us
Who see them no more,
Who can no longer  run our hands
Down their back
Through their coarse fur.

They are not sentimental.
We are soon forgotten.
They only know the moment
That pulls them away from those
Who once admired their motion.

A bitch in heat, a smell
From across the hill:
These are life's important things:
Something running and
Running away in the tops of trees.

My yard is full of the bones
Of old friends who came to stay
And sticking around until time ran out,
Lay down where they lived
And did the natural thing.

But where are the lost ones,
The ones who were beside me
Then gone, leaving no corpse
In the ditch or on the road?
I hear the yard dogs bark

And I think he is coming home.
I walk out on the porch
And scan the moonlit distance.
Where do they go, these
Lost ones who abandon us?

I see a room full of people
Gambling, drinking,
Smoking and cursing;
And there is my boy, always
Timid but a good thief.

I turn my eye to another place,
A warm house and a good mistress,
A better master than I.
My old friend snores with a belly full
Of horse meat by the fire.

Or slicing through razored grass
Along the highway  noise,
Ice falling from the night's mouth,
He cannot hear the sorrowful
Resignation in our voice.

This place was not what they needed.
This love was not given well.
Their last looks were not heeded.
Regret now fills their bowls.
It was not they, but I who failed.

So I will sleep and dream away
this loss until a brighter day
to swing my backdoor wide,
And greet another lost dog
To walk briefly by my side.

--DC

There's a bunch of kids at Appalachian State University in
Boone, North Carolina, who know how to rock. We found them and they found us this Saturday at the Black Cat, which is a burrito parlor from lunch
time(breakfast time for students)until after 10 pm when tables and chairs
are moved around, microphones , drums and amps appear; and the rocking
starts.

Invited to play there by the Flat Tires, a redneck/metal/punk-country
outfit out of Hickory, North Carolina, we opened the show, playing to as
many people as the small room could hold. From the start the vibe was great,
people were going crazy, letting the music seize them and drive them. It was
the vibe we travel far and wide to find. And Grace was with us. At the
beginning of Randy's solo on our first song, "Strayway Child", I stepped
back and lost my footing, falling backwards to the left of the drum kit, but
still playing as the MDJs blazed on. Some of my old athleticism aided me in
rolling out of the fall, and back to my feet just in time to get back to the
microphone for the last verse. Cut on my right hand, blood began to flow but
nothing was going to stop us. Any way blood is drama, and this was a "show",
not just some musicians jacking each other off and talking about how
brilliant they are(thus, not Americana). We blasted from one song to
another, fueled by the wildness and drunkeness that increased with each
song, until we were done and the Flat Tires took the stage.

Within minutes, the Hickory-ites picked up where we left off, ratcheting up
the intensity with each song. Separated from the crowd by only the
microphone stands, Clint, the singer, went into the crowd to dance with and
sing to them. At one point, a young man who had had way too much alcohol
tried to start a fight with Clint. As quickly as it started it was done, and
a wall of bodies, mine, Robert and Mark's included, blocked the belligerent
drunk from Clint, and probably spared him a solid ass whipping. Clint is a
former rodeo rider from Texas who is strong as the bulls who used to ride,
and who can back up all the words that spill out of him. It was a moment of
drama that could have stopped a great show in its tracks. Rather than ruin
the show, however, it only added to it, became a part of it, serious but
comic. The Flat Tires attempted to put down their instruments, reminding me
a little of how James Brown would try to leave the stage during "Please,
Please, Please", but the crowd would not let them. So they blazed on until
it was all done. It was the kind of show I relish and the kind I love to be
a part of. The cops showed up an hour later to see about the "fight".
Nothing against cops, but when the place is right and the people know what
they are doing, things get taken care of without them. The folks at The
Black Cat know what they are doing.

I was totally floored by the energy and music the Flat Tires cranked out. I
have to laugh when I remember Clint telling me how the Flat Tires were
recently banned from Puckett's Farm Supply in Charlotte because they drove
the audience into a frenzy at a rockabilly show. The owners branded them
"devil worshippers" and swore they would never let them back in. Puckett's,
a renowned shit-hole which has no business trying to be a music venue, and
which should just play the jukebox instead of exposing real people to the
idiocy of their clientele, does not deserve the likes of The Flat Tires or
any other musical acts, including many of the ones who play there now who
are really good bands but lack good venues, and who like all of us who do
this stuff, want to play. It speaks positively to the artistry and talent
of the Flat Tires that they would disturb and horrify the idiots at
Puckett's.

Jam banders, pussies and those who take their chairs and coolers out to
festivals, should probably avoid The Flat Tires too. Those who want to rock
should catch their next show. Do not expect any fifteen minute solos; just
good, tight, furious rock and roll. It's loud, and no, fuck you, you
probably can't hear the words, or figure out what the meaning of it is. The
meaning is in your hands and feet and not in your head. The meaning is in
the smoke in the room, the weird paintings on the walls bending and jumping,
the bodies swirling, hopping, swinging, the music pounding out into the
street, the drum beat striking solidly right in the middle of your heart,
the smiles and the happiness of release in faces, and beer cans, big PBR
tall boy beer cans flying through the air, the power of it all charging over
dark mountains and rooftops like a hurricane of pounding hooves.

We'll be playing with The Flat Tires again in Hickory at the Underground on
February 24. Look also for a return to Boone with them soon.

(oops, the above was true at the time David wrote it.  However I screwed up and we are unable to play the Underground show.  Don't let that stop you from going out to see these guys. - Mark)

****

Further from home, our tour of Holland is set to begin on April 28 and end
on May 12. We look forward to returning and to seeing all the good people we
met over there last year. That trip really turned my head around and showed
me that we in America should take a few notes on how to live better in a
small world. I still believe that we in this country can learn; that we do
not have to keep making the same mistakes; that we do not have to keep
committing suicide because of greed and self-interest. America's greatness
has come from its ability to synthesize and build on the knowledge and
experiences of other cultures; to make them uniquely American in the
process. We give up nothing and gain a better life for all.
--DC

Have a look at our MySpace  page. About half way down the page you'll see what looks like a music player. That's SnoCap. It streams 30 second samples of every song on the new CD, Burning In Hell. SnoCap also allows you to buy songs to put on your ipod/MP3 player or burn on a CD. Unlike iTunes the songs are encoded in MP3 and at a very high resolution. At only 95¢ each, it's a little cheaper than iTunes. Setting up a SnoCap account is easy and secure. All that and you'll be supporting the band.

Thanks!

Mark (this time)

David will have a new blog up in the next few days.

ALL SOULS

The corpses have left nothing
But their jagged teeth
To dull the brown light
Morning drags in
From the haunts of night.

Sleeping sun, drunk still
and good for nothing.
There is no one else
to sweep away debris,
Fallen leaves.

Now the northern wind
Stands up with double fist.
The rooms chill down.
Voices high in the ceiling
Mumble, complaining.

Last night I slept in my lover's arms.
Today I am sad and alone.
Red sky and dead am I.
Bury me on Sunday
And drink my memory dry.


David Childers