Grant Peeples and the Roland Stowne Interview....

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The Roland Stowne interview with Grant took place over several days in early January.   This is the first installment.   Roland Stowne is an independent writer and critic living in ....Canada.... with a dog.

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RS:    So it’s a new year.   Word has it you have a new record in the works.

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GP:    Yea, I’m raking songs into a pile right now.  

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RS:   You’re in the selection process?

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GP:    It’s more culling than selecting.   Separating wheat from chaff.  That kinda thing.

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RS:    You want to share any details?   Does the record have a name yet?

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GP:    “Pawnshop” would appear to be the name of the new record.   I was going to call it “The Bush-Madoff Economy.”    But my friend, Donna Mavity, suggested Pawnshop.  I was able to cut the title down to its core meaning and context:  “Pawnshop.”    Same thing as “The Bush-Madoff Economy.”   Just less words.

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RS:    You sound angry.  Still.   I figured you’d be happy about the new Presidency.

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GP:   Sure, I’m pleased Obama won.  But Bush hocked the soul of our country.  Sold our blood at that seedy looking plasma place between the porn store and the homeless shelter.  Took the money and bought hookers and crack, threw an eight year sleep-over party for all his pals.   The question now:   Will a 700 billion dollar French kiss give a hard-on to the same economy Bush gave a 7 trillion dollar butt buggering to?  

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RS:   Aside from your vulgarity, you might be accused of hyperbole here, you know.   All that being as it may, will the new record---any of the songs---offer any solutions?

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GP:   Are you kidding?  Gimme a break.  It’s a record, man.   I’m just an artist.  Any time a work of art offers any ‘solution’ other than pure unadulterated revolution, it’s not a work of art, it’s….I don’t know.  What?  Toilet paper, maybe? 

 RS:   All of this sounds confrontational, bleak and negative.  Don’t people want to hear some songs that aren’t so sad?

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GP:  They’re not sad.  They’re hopeless. 

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RS:   Happy, then.  Don’t they want to hear some happy songs?

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GP:   Sure they want to.  Some do, at least.  The same ones who were buying properties with adjustable rate mortgages and trying to flip them and make a hundred percent profit.   So, I’m not of a mind that they deserve happy songs.  And I don’t really care about those people.  I can’t relate to them, really.  Besides, I try to keep my songs about what is.  As it is.  Not as it oughtta be.  If people want Paxil or Wellbutrin in their ear canals, then they're gonna have to buy somebody else’s record.  I got nothing for them.  Sorry.

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RS:   So---excuse my smile, but:  do you think you can make a living doing this? 

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GP:   Truthfully, I think I’m pissing up a rope.  But I don’t have any choice.  I got a big mirror in my bathroom that I stare into every morning when I’m checking out the wear and tear.  The mirror don’t lie, you know. And I’ve got peers and a small cadre of

fans--- “in the high-one, low-two figures,” as Jack Saunders would say---who would know immediately if I tried to bullshit some songs past the gates.    

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RS:   The gates?   Are you talking about ....Nashville....?

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GP:   I'm just talking about what I would see---“who” I would see---in that mirror, if I started painting houses instead of painting pictures of the glass houses I see crashing down around us.    But, yea.   I go to ....Nashville.... pretty much every month. 

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RS:   Why?  I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but do you really think you are writing songs for contemporary country radio?

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GP:   You’re damn right I do.   Just because a song doesn’t sound like something you hear on the radio, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t belong there.  And it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t relate to the people who are listening to that radio.   I don’t want YOU to take THIS the wrong way, but…....Nashville.... needs me.

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RS:   (laughs)  You must know that you are sounding….grandiose.  Are you not worried about how this is going to read?  That you are going to sound full of yourself?

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GP:  Grandiose?  I drove a thousand miles round trip this week for a $200 gig in ....Miami.....  Slept in the back of my Honda Fit.  I bought that car because it gets 35 miles to the gallon. That’s what I’m doing these days.   Grandiose?  

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RS:  Okay.  How about ‘self-important’? 

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GP:    What difference does it make?  Does any of that negate the truth of what I’m trying to tell you?   Look.  Taylor Swift sucks.   I'd walk naked through the lobby of BMI in my cowboy boots saying that.  Hell, LOTS of people know it.  But it’s like the King has no clothes.   With the noted exception of Jamey Johnson, I haven't heard any ball-clank coming out of ....Nashville.... in decades.   Every now and then they cough out a flag-waving-bomb-the-bastards song that keeps them feeling like they’re not a bunch of pussies.  But other than that, its insipid piss-water they’re squeezing out of the tube.

RS:  You DO know that this interview is going to be read by millions of people. 

GP:   I can't help that.   That’s your gig.   Me?  I’ve sold less than two thousand records in my career.  Bob Marley said:  “A hungry man is a dangerous man."  The library shelves are full of poetry that doesn’t get read.  That ain’t poetry’s fault.   That’s the poet’s fault.   I accept responsibility for my audience, which is small.    But you have to accept responsibility for yours, which is inflated.

RS:   I’m not sure where you are really going with all that.  Regardless, some will say that with this kind of talk you are burning a bridge.

GP:  I like the  " scuttle-the-ship "  metaphor better.  John Conquest has a thing he tags on to every mailing he sends out:  “You’re not getting older.  The music really does suck.”    I mean, have you LISTENED to contemporary country radio lately?  

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RS:   Yes, but have you seen how that format has grown and developed.   Many have seen this as a Big Tent.

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RS:    What I’ve seen is how the sausage gets made in ....Nashville.....   A couple of middle-class, suburbanite, college dweebs who’ve never shot dope or spent a night in jail or had their truck repossessed meet for a ‘writing appointment’ on music row at 10:00 a.m.  They show up in Banana Republic dress, with their Blackberries and laptops and their Starbucks Coffee in hand, all ready to write a song.  And they do.  Invariably the song is about sweet tea and front porches and trains and tractors and a bunch of anachronistic bullshit that they have zero relationship to or with.  But then some fuzzy-nut pretty-boy with a pitch corrector and a cowboy hat that hasn’t got any sweat stains on it records the song.  And then a bunch people who haven’t breathed through their noses in something like ten years stop sipping coffee out of Styrofoam cups at a focus group in Missouri long enough to all agree that the song sounds just like the shit they’ve been hearing on the radio, and so they give it a thumbs up and the song makes it into the rotation and, eventually, the charts.

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RS:   So…you’ve taken it upon yourself to change the model?

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GP:   When a snake bites you, what’s the first thing you do?

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RS:   What do you mean?

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GP:   I mean:    What’s the first thing you do?

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RS:   How about, seek medical attention???

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GP:   Wrong.  First thing you do is you kill the snake.  Jack Saunders taught me that.

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RS:   You’re just sounding bitter.   Not just sounding, but even your body language is

aggressive, agitated.  One might wonder if maybe this isn’t a good path for you.

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GP:   Bitter?  I got lots of character defects, man.  But begrudgement ain't one of them.   Don’t confuse begrudgement with nausea.    A month or so back there was Kid Rock, Jessica Simpson, Jewel and that Hootie the Blowfish guy all in the top 20 of the country music charts.   A Big Tent?   I don’t think so.  ....Nashville....’s a blind hog searching for an acorn.

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RS:   And you think you fit the bill?   You're that acorn?

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GP:   There is no bill to fit, man.   They’re clueless.   Tom Hutchison got me a meeting with one of the heavies at ASCAP a few months ago.   The guy leaned back in his chair and put his sissy pointy-toed shoes up on the desk and said:   “Twenty-five years ago we were making music for the guys who were in bars at midnight.   Now we’re making music for women who are driving to work at 8:00 in the morning.”   That’s such utter bullshit.  How do they let that guy keep a job?

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RS:   What he said didn’t even raise an eyebrow from you?    Didn’t you even scratch your head a little?   Think about the market he was talking about?

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GP:   The market?   Look.  The modus operandi of ....Nashville.... is to give people exactly what they liked last month.   Just follow that scenario out for a decade or so.  See what you got.    For years it actually sorta worked because you had people crawling out of corners.  People like Waylon and Mickey Newberry and Cash and Hag and Billy Joe Shaver and Gary Stewart.  That kept things fresh, made the horizon worth looking at.  And there were DJs and program directors that played those guys’ songs because the songs spoke to them.   But ....Nashville.... and Clear Channel have got all the rat holes stuffed now.  That gives them control over the bland fruit cocktail they’re making.  There are no DJs any more.   There’s no difference between what they call a DJ and that woman that talks to me on my GPS.   “Re-cal-cu-late-ing.” And program directors are just spitting out the bile that focus groups regurgitate.   It’s incestuous, and if you look at the eyes and teeth of the babies they’re making, you can tell it.  The breeding stock’s gone soft.  The mutations are grotesque.

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RS:   And you want in?  You want in that scene that you describe?

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GP:   I told you.  I just want to help.  I’ve got an anti-venom.   And the truth is --- I’m a bit positive about the future.   If not for me, for the industry. 

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RS:   And what’s that positive out-look based on?

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GP:  The fact that we are probably headed for a world depression.  And that the record industry was asleep at the wheel when the internet happened, and so now they are really hurting because of it.  Then there’s the fact that Clear Channel is laying off people right and left because revenue is off so much.  In other words, all the MBA models are melting in the heat of the kitchen.  This is all positive.   I wrote a song in the 90s called:  “What This Country Needs Is A Good Depression.”   Maybe that’s the real summation of what I’m saying.

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RS:   Now you are sounding mean-spirited.   You have to know that.

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GP:   Why do you say that?  Can’t you see that I just feel bad for the people who switch on their radios and have to listen Walmart-McDonalds music.   I heard this hotshot ....Nashville.... music publisher say a couple of years ago:   “If I’m listening to a song, I don’t want to have to turn down the TV and tell the kids to shut up so that I can figure out what the song is about.”   That’s the mentality that’s at the switch. 

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RS:  And your point?

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GP:  The point is if I was writing songs like you hear on contemporary country radio, why would I be taking them to ....Nashville....?  They’ve got thousands of those songs in catalogs, and thousands more being written every week.   That’d be like hauling coal to ....Newcastle.....   If I’m going to drive up there and show what I got, it’s gotta be something they ain’t seen or heard.  Or what’s the point?  When somebody’s drowning you don’t hand them a glass of water.

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RS:   Haul coal to ....Newcastle....?  Beat your head against the wall?   Piss up a rope?   Blind hogs searching for acorns.    Scuttling ships.   You sound like a man in need of a metaphor.

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GP:   Well, you got that fucking right.  At least.

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On May 2 of this year, my 51^st birthday, I released my current record and launched (did I say 'launched?') a music career.  A few CDs were mailed-out to some radio stations.   Some folks bought some.  I started booking gigs.  And now, today, eight months later, I'm kinda raising my head and taking a bit of a look-around.

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The music business is in a flux.  The economy sucks.  And I'm starting a music career at an age when most successful musicians are struggling to make a second or third comeback.   I'm sorta late to the party.   Though I don't wanna be Brittney Spears, I am looking for a larger audience than the one in Sopchoppy.  There's stuff I wanna get said.  And heard.   And that's pretty much what's at the bottom of all this.  That, and this personal thirst for songs I don't think I'm ever gonna hear…unless I write them my-damn-self.

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I write everyday.  Song is always in my head.  Impetuous and immutable. Sometimes people say to me things like:  "Man, why don't you write something a little hap-pi-er, maybe."  But I write down what scrolls across my cerebral screen.  That's the only honest way I know to do it.  I've tried chasing stuff down, inventing songs, creating songs, and when I do, when I finally get it, it rings all-wore-out to me---the same damn song other people have been writing over and over and over.  And that don't do nothing for me.  I'd just as soon work at WalMart.

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When I was a teenager I was at a farm house out in ....Gadsden.. ..County.... one night.  The house of a friend of my friend, Jimmy Roche.  I don't remember whose house it was but I know he was a writer of some sort, and I've never forgotten what the guy had written on the wall of the living room of the house with a big, back thick-nosed, felt marker:

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"Jesus, Lord, this ain't play writing no longer."  

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And I think that's where I am today with this songwriting stuff of mine.   

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Three years ago this week,  on a small island in the Caribbean, I was explaining to a fuzzy-nut Nicaraguan cop that I had warned the owner of those three hogs I had just shot that if I ever saw them in my cassava patch again I was going to kill them.  Today...well:  I'm after other hogs.  It's a lot bigger cassava patch.   The stakes are higher.  And…I've got a different weapon.   ....

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But the game is the same for me.   An every bit as serious.

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 I want to thank the radio stations that are playing songs from my record:....

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WFIT Melbourne, Florida KPFT Houston, Texas WSJF  St. Augustine, FL  KYOU San Francisco, WGWG North and S.Carolina, WHUS Storrs Connecticut  KYOU San Francisco,  WRFN Nashville WSLR Sarasota, Florida WGWG 88. 3fm North & South Carolina WFJO  Folkston GA, WHUS Storrs Connecticut, WHJX Jacksonville, Florida  KTRU Houston, Texas  WFMT Chicago, Illinois WWOZ New Orleans, Louisiana  WUFT Gainesville, Florida  KEOS College Station, Texas  WOYS Apalachicola, Florida  KRCB Rohnert Park, California WNCW Spindale, North Carolina  WZNZ Jacksonville, Florida  CMR Nashville, Tennessee KTHX Reno, Nevada WMNF Tampa, Fl  WUMV Boston, Mass  WFMT Chicago, Illinois WLRN Miami, FL  WYEP Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania  WUFW  Pensacola, FL WSCA  Portsmouth, NH   KZMU  Moab, UtahTerneuzen FM   Netherlands Moozikoo Radio Nashville, TN Roots and Rhythm, Denmark  Radio Golden Flash, Holland   Azilia Web Radio  Rootstime, Belgium  Radio Six International  Carolina  Tawa 88. 5 New Zealand  GoldRush 1440 New Zealand  Country Music 24 Germany Moozikoo Radio Nashville, TN Radio Rucphen FM Holland KABEL 105.0 Holland Tiger FM Denmark ....

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I want to thank the venues, hosts, presenters and festivals that have invited me to play since the record came out:....

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Gamble Rogers Festival in St. Augustine,  Hookwreck Henry's in Panacea Fl, Last Concert Café in Houston TX,  Woodlands BBQ in Blowing Rock NC,  Funky Oyster Shack in Carabelle Fl,  Green Living Centre in Tallahassee, Fish Bonz in Thomasville GA, The  Warehouse in Tallahassee, Donna Mavity House Concert in Thomasville GA, The Carabelle Harbor Festival in Carabelle Fl, The Commodore in Nashville TN, Bird's in Tallahassee, European St. Café in Jacksonville Fl, Y Trinity in St, Augustine Fl, The Canyons in Blowing Rock NC, The American Legion Hall in Tallahassee, Acoustic Café in Bristol TN, The Ka Tiki in St. Pete Fl, Studio 32 in Rockledge Fl, Barnies Coffee Shop in Bradenton Fl, Appalachian St. University in Boone NC, The Paradise in Tallahassee, Christmas in Sopchoppy Festival,  Live on WSLR in Sarasota, Backwoods Pizza in Sopchoppy Fl, Gram Parsons Guitar Pull in Waycross GA, Withalachoochee Folk Jam in Inglis Fl, The Swamp Stomp in Tallahassee, Whistle Stop Café in St. Petersburg Fl,  Sweetwater Organic Farm in Tampa, Marie Horn's in Sarasota, Woodstork Music Festival in Panacea Fl, The Rendevous in St. Augustine, The Plaza  in Thomasville GA, Luna Star Café in Miami, Smith's Olde Bar in Atlanta, Fresh Aroma Coffee Bar in Deerfield Beach Fl, The Wallflower Art Gallery in Miami, The Gatorbone Stage in Keystone Heights Fl,, Barberville Folk Festival in Barberville Fl, Deland Music Festival in Deland FlLive on WMNF in Tampa, Live on KTRU in Houston, Live on KPFT in Houston.

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A special thanks to Cathy Sherman, Brad Fitzgerald, Melissa Cherry, Donna Mavity, Lis and Lon Williamson....

I was born in ....Tallahassee...., 1957.  It was there I learned to crawl and walk and talk and ride a bike, tie my shoes.  I went to school and learned to read and spell badly, to crawl under the desk when Krushev fired a missile at us.   I hunted, fished, rode horses, read books about Daniel Boone and Abraham Lincoln.   By the time I was twelve I had learned the words to every Roger Miller song.   Then I grew some hair, raced motorcycles, smoked pot, threw a cast net for mullet in the wee hours, scribbled a lot of bad poetry.  Kissed a girl or two. 

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Life was linear.  Days were cards dealt mechanically from the top of the deck, pages turned in a cosmic novel, replete with plot and intrigue, mystery and campy dialogue that I started to take a liking to.   One day just birthed another, like amoebas under the microscope in science class.   The shear exigency of it all warranted a big smile, and I gave the world one.   There were textures and colors, and they all found their rightful places on the big canvas that kept rolling out before me like a big throw rug.   I didn't understand much of it at all, but still---somehow--- it all made sense.  Even the war that was going on at the time.

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Then one day, around 1972, Hugh Roche rode over to my house on his Bultaco motorcycle with a guitar strapped to the back fender and played  "Desolation Row"  and  "Just Like a Woman"  and  "Girl of the ..North Country.." and I was forever and irrevocably changed.   After that, everything---I mean every God damned thing---was different.  Especially me.  That whole sensible linear cosmology I had embraced so naturally was transformed into a metaphoric island hub, where I stood with a thousand roads before me, spoking and forking and forking again into infinite space, challenging and confounding the grasp of my newly hatched imagination.   The colors, the textures, the meanings of words were all now immediately subjective.    It was revelatory to the point of vertigo.  I saw ideas as the mortar mix of my inner identity, the defining components of my soul.   Activities, actions, were the bricks this mortar held together, forming walls that separated the good from the bad, truth from lie, redemption from oblivion.   I was fifteen years old.   And in a word, what I felt was a budding responsibility---the cornerstone of artistic sensibility.  But I wasn't smiling like before.

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It wasn't too long after that I picked up a guitar and started writing my own songs.  They weren't very good but it didn't matter cause nobody really heard them except for me.   All around me people I knew were joining bands, painstakingly learning guitar riffs, bass lines and the popular hits, playing out and doing that scene, but I wasn't pulled to that.  All I cared about were the songs.   I studied other peoples' songs like Torah, but didn't really learn any to such a degree that I could play them start to finish.  As soon as I heard a song I liked, I took it apart, just like some dope kid who gets a new bike for his birthday and starts unbolting and unscrewing it before he ever takes it for a ride.  

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Some years went by.

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I was serious about songs, but in a lighter moment I wrote one called  "I Will Fuck a Fat Girl."  I don't' know where it came from.  But by way of boats and the ..Bahamas.. and my brother and a story too long to tell,  Hank Cochran heard the song and said,  "Hell, come to ....Nashville.... and I'll introduce you to the folks around Tree Publishing."    I was finishing college at the time, so I moved to ....Nashville.....   The day I was driving into the city, pulling a U-haul trailer, the radio jock said:  "Here's a brand new one from George Jones."   And he played  "He Stopped Loving Her Today."   I realized just how far I had to go, could see in a flash what all I didn't know.  

 But Hank introduced me around at Tree, just like he said he'd do, but everywhere I went I was known as the guy that "wrote the song about the fat girl."   I couldn't shake it.   It was like this curse I brought upon myself by trying to be cute.   I went to a song pull one night at Dave Kirby's house and I played the song.   People laughed.  I saw tears in Whitey Shafer's eyes.   Later on that night, when I squeezed in an opportunity to play again, everybody insisted I play that song again.   I left ....Nashville.... the year after I got there.

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A few years down the road I owned a night club that did live music.  We had everybody come through there, from BB King to the Judds,  The Temptations to George Straight, Jerry Lee Lewis to Dionne Warwick.   I was still writing songs, but I was pretty much keeping them to myself.   I kept thinking maybe I ought to pitch my songs to some of these folks I was hiring to play in my club, but I only did that once, and that was to Bonnie Raitt.  She wrote me a nice little note saying  "I liked your songs."     Jerry Jeff Walker was playing one night, and I went to the airport to pick him up.  I had a tape of a couple of my songs there in the truck that I was going to play for him.  But after I picked him up we talked about fishing and I didn't put the tape in or saying anything to him about it.  Jerry Jeff wrote Mr. Bojangles.  Maybe that's why I didn't push my tape in.

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I did do a show there at my club one Sunday night.  Got a bunch of my local musician friends to play a long set of my songs.   I didn't sing any myself because I wanted to be able to sit out in the audience and see what they sounded like.  I wanted to know if they worked.   There were okay.  Then it was over.  And shortly after that I went flat ass broke in the night club business.  

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Several years after that, I rented a hall and put a band together and played a couple of sets of my songs for a nice group of friends and family.   A few years after that, I spent some time with my old friends in the Wakulla Band.    Snorri, Susan and William Solburg, who had a recording studio in Sopchoppy called the Possum Club.  We laid down some tracks of some things I had written.   William, a metaphysical bass player with a possum grin, was very encouraging to me.   "You got something,"     he told me   "You need to just go on and a make a record."  He offered the studio and the time of the band, but shortly after that, I moved to a remote island in the Caribbean off the Coast of ....Nicaragua.....  

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I moved there for various and sundry reasons.  But I figured it would be a great place to write songs:  no phones, no cars, no distractions.   I took my Martin guitar with me when I made the move in 1995.   Unbeknownst to me, I was beginning  the longest non-songwriting period of my life.  Go figure.   But after ten years of…living…I started thinking about songs again, and I opened the case of my guitar.  The bridge was pulled up, the neck had moved, I could hardly turn the tuners they were so rusty. Too many years of salt air, tropical heat and humidity.   I thought the guitar might be ruined but I decided I would take it with me on a trip back to the States to see about getting it fixed.

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By then, I had started writing some stuff down again.  Not songs, not even ideas for songs, really, but  images and phrases, word associations, word rhythms, some couplets, the mechanical nuts and bolts that build songs.   I could feel a remote corner of my being starting to move again, and like an explorer gathering provisions, I was assembling things that I knew I could use on the journey.  Maybe. 

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 I had also started wondering about some of the stuff we had laid down at the Possum Club, which was the last work I had done.   I had no copies of anything we recorded during the weekends we had worked down there.  But there was a song I had written called  "The Well" that I remembered us recording.  Susan had sung it, and though I could not  remember the words or the melody I still knew, somehow---the song.  And I wanted to get to it, to see if it had survived and----subconsciously, I believe---I was thinking  it might serve as a kind of jumping-on place for me writing again.   

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A month after opening that sad guitar case I was in the States for a couple of weeks.  The day before I went back to the island I called William Solburg.   It had been a couple of years since we had seen each other, over ten since we had done the recording.  We talked, caught up on things.  He asked if I had been writing and I told him no,  (which was kind of a lie)  but that it was starting to feel like I might again soon.  He laughed at that.  I told him I had been thinking of a song we had done ten years back at the Possum Club called The Well, asked if he thought there might still be a tape of it in the studio, cause if so, I'd like to hear it cause I didn't have the words and the melody was gone, too.   He said he remembered the song.  And then right there on the phone, ten years since he himself had heard the song, William sang it for me. 

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I was stunned.

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I got an email a week later telling me that William was gone.  Killed by a drunk driver on the way home from the Possum Club.  When Snorri wrote, he said that before his brother had gotten in his truck to leave that night, they had dug up the tape that had The Well on it and played it.   I got all shook up by this.  The impact was as physical as it was emotional.  I'm not superstitious, but I believe in signs.  And I took all this as one. 

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My wife was on the way to ....Managua...., the capital, to do some shopping.  I asked her to bring me a guitar.  Any guitar.  She bought one for $100 and brought it back to the island.  And I've been playing every day ever since.

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My wife and I sold the hotel and dive shop we started in ....Nicaragua.....  Moved to ....Wakulla County.., ..Florida.....  And, now, in the fiftieth year of  my life, thirty-five years after Hugh Roche came over to my house on his motorcycle and played those songs, I've made a record in Sopchoppy of some of my own songs.  It is improbable that many people will ever come to know them, but all I really care about, the important thing to me, is that at least some of the people that happen to hear them…..remember them.  

Like William Solburg did.