ok, now i know we all put up a couple people we admire in our top friends that we don't know, and that's just normal. like i don't know the black keys, but i admire them, and just maybe some old guys like me will check 'em out and go "well hell yeah".
however - i have met neil. he won't remember, but i sure do.
1988 new york city. i'm in atlantic studios with jeff glixman as we are "re-mixing" open all night (sigh, yes, it was actually mixed twice). i have a friend up there named julie panabianco (sp?) who worked for warner bros/ repriese at the time. i give her a ring to see what's shakin' and she asks if i want to go see neil young and the bluenotes (the big horn band he used on 1 record) at a disco named "the world" with her and her buds. well hell yeah i do sez i.

now those of you who live in non-giant cities and towns may not know that a venue will be a live music thing until, say midnight, then shift over to a disco until dawn, and make way more $$$$$ being said disco than live music venue. so was the case this evening.

well, i'm pretty excited, cause i ain't never seen neil before at this point. place holds 2500-3000. he comes out in a scruffy suit and greased back long hair playing ol' black and a hollowbody or 2 through what looks like an old silvertone amp. he's cool and does the blues w/ horns thing, no old tunes or hits, but he's still way cool.
the show finishes up and wow does the u-cha u-cha disco hit with way more volume than neil. her friend that really has the hook up inside the lable screams "wanna come say hey to neil?"
"naw, naw" says i, but am easily talked into it anyway.

i guess they had his whole 10 piece band in a linen closet, cause when julie, head honcho gal (no, i don't remember her name, sorry (been avoiding that fact well haven't i?)) and i head to the "dressing room" we can't get in. head honcho gal says something to the guy at the door and 5 seconds later, boom, neil pops out.
like i said before, it is LOUD in there. we are standing kind of in a box shape, you know, normal 4 people standing, 4 corners of a box, the gals across from each other and me and neil across. neil says something i can't make out, waits, and i shrug my shoulders. he waits and then shrugs his, turns around and walks back in linen closet. the girls mouths drop open and both say "why did you do that?, we thought you loved this guy".
"i do, i do, but i couldn't hear a word he said" sez i
julie then says "well, he just said he liked your band and you just shrugged your shoulders, like "so what"".

oh jesus, i'm gonna puke. i don't drink and i'm ready to heave everywhere. the string in my legs lets go. i break into a sweat. the kind where the lying witness in the movie starts to tug open his tie so he can let a little heat out. this is now "the worst thing that has ever happened to me". one of my all time heros even knew who i was and i give him the "so what" when he tried to give me a compliment. heartbroken and chock full self loathing i walk back 40 blocks to my hotel.
it's a nice hotel. the parker-meridian.
i toss and turn for the rest of the night into the next a.m..
did you ever see boogie nights and the scene where phillip seymore hoffman makes the pass at mark wahlberg? it doesn't work. a lot. and hoffamn goes into "i'm an idiot, such a fucking idiot". he stole that line from me and that night.  i get maybe 2 hours of sleep, give up at 9, get some coffee. i am now just mad at myself like i have never been. and back then when i still had knees and hadn't started back on the smokes, used to run a lot. well, they got a gym on site at the hotel. i grab my runnin' shit and head down to burn off a bit of what is going to eat me alive from the inside-out.

i go change into my exo-togs (ok, gym shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt) and head over to the gym. if ya know tread mills (which is what i get on) 6 mph is a pretty good clip for a 40 minute run, which is what i started at. but i had a brand new kind of rocket fuel. self hate. i pushed it up to 7.5 mph and hit it for 1 hour. businessmen were getting on and doing a normal run and looking over nervously at the longhaired guy going way too fast chanting "asshole asshole" then getting off leaving me to my new-fangled flagellation.

i'm finally exhasted. i head back to the changing room, drop the gym shorts, loose the t-shirt, look up and 4 feet away from me is neil freakin' young, just finishing getting out of his jeans. now we're both in our undies, and it may not be the "best" moment to do it, but i know i'll never get another chance if i do not barge in now. right now. 

i make eye contact, swallow once and jump in. "hey neil, we got intoduced and i tried to say hey to you last night after your show, but i couldn't hear a sinlge word you said 'cause the disco was so damn loud. (actually there is no breath or pause what-so-ever after "loud", and those of you who know me know that i can do this magic trick, but i'll have to say that steve earle does it better) so was that a silvertone amp you were using?".
"yeah it's a weird one with 6 10's in it". goldmine!!!!
we continue to talk amps and guitars in our underwear for the next 10 minutes.
i find out that neil's black les paul custom is prototype #2 made in 1952. 2 years proir to the 1st production run in '54. the 2nd l.p. custom ever made. he tells me about the "whizzer" for his 57 deluxe. i am in heaven. i am livin' the dream i had as a young rock and roller. i am among the elite today. i am yappin' about gear with neil young. in our underwear.
my head just about won't fit through the door as i leave. i have been granted absolution.

like i said, i'm sure he doesn't remember, but i sure do and i can put up his "my space pic" in my top friends with out battin' an eye.
db
1/25/09

ok, so it's a cheap headliner, but i found somethin' that i thought was lost forever in the mists of time.

 i'll start out with a quick history of my esquire (as seen in my main photo that i never change, and more than likely won't).

this fine example of 1957 fender came to me via mr. steve marriot (small faces and humble pie, for those that don't know). he lived in atlanta in 1983 and traded this toward the blonde 335 that he played for the rest of his all too brief life. that whole saga of me seeing and finally (3 weeks later) getting the guitar is just too disney, but i'll thank mr. graff again.

now the satellites would open for a bunch of different bands either in atlanta or on the road, when things got rollin', and i would bug/get my heros to just play it for a minute or two, so i could brag and say; "oh yes, albert lee, big al anderson, mike campbell, pete anderson, francis rossi.......... all have played this guitar". and i was one cool guy (well, at least my guitar was).

well the sats got/had to play the montreux pop festival in 1987 (you do the pop festival, which is a 3 song lip sync, and you might get to do the jazz festival which is for real, which we did the next year, thank you funky claude) and one of my favorite bands was there and their singer was given a true piece of crap tele to play. couldn't even lip-sinc with the damn thing. "well, it ain't blue, but you can use mine" says db. check it out.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DMv_Jf5iGxU

hot or what?

db

 

howdy y'all -

well i'm back at home after 3 weeks of dates with the quireboys and the diamond dogs in europe. 1st off  a big thanks to those 2 bands. it was a tour where you'd best bring your A game, or you were going to be embarrassed. mick, mike, sam and bruce - without your help this would have either not happened or been a total wreck. all the bands did a bit of cross pollination on a night to night basis, but db&hs would dearly like to thank keith weir of the quireboys for playing keys with us on our new songs. he let us know that he'd enjoy playing a bit if we wanted about 3 nights into it. 4th night he was drafted and never missed a tune we needed him on for the rest of the tour. now this ain't easy because we never use a set list and just call 'em as we go (although he was late coming in on one tune, i think he had to pee and i just started it anyway, he wandered on over and picked it right up like the pro he is). we told him to learn two for tuesday and runnin' outta time for starters, then he told us to work up lazy monday and i think i made him play hellzapoppin' without going over it at sound check. the last show in austria we just made him stay up there for the 2nd half of the show. since he was up there we did like a rolling stone (which warner had never played before, and i have no idea if quireboy keith (gotta keep your keith's straight this tour) had either).trial by fire indeed.

the high point shows for me were glasgow, newcastle, london and the 1st swiss date (i can't for the life of me remember the name of the town or club, anyone who has done the international flight thing will tell ya not to be bloggin' within 24 hours, so, of course, i'm doin' it within 12) but it was fantastic. i'm not at all dissin' the other shows, but it's like warner says "each one's a little snowflake", it's just those stood out to me.

the 3 guys i play with every night are amazing. i cannot throw them a curveball they won't try to drive out of the park (and believe me i try). keith trying to take it to a new place, warner begging for another sky dive and mauro with his "ok, what fresh hell is this?" look and then slamming it back down my throat are the show to me. i just give them a starting point, then try to keep up. i am blessed.

a very large thanks to the fans that came out to see us, even the ones in dudley (who need to learn that slapping your hands together at the end of a well performed song is not punishment).

we'll be at it again in the near future.

db 6/3/08

hi again folks -

just a while since i did this (blog, that is), so i thought i'd yack at ya.

you think you want to do something you love (producing and making records in this case) over and over again. well, it's the too much of any one thing syndrome. reminds me of the time i was in n.y.c. for a weekend and went to the museum with a fantastic van gogh exibit. spent an hour looking at the first 5 paintings, the next hour looking at 20, then just walking by and glancing at paintings that were in anybody's greatest hits. too much cotton candy. disgusting, but true. well i've hit that wall for a bit with recording. face down in 3 records since december 1st, all of them wonderful to work on. need my fix of live which i am about to get in may.

finishing up mr. chris knight's new record when he gets back from out yonder the 1st week of may. the songs are so damn good it's kept my head in the game. the body count is down on this one, but not by a lot. seriously, another wonderful look into my favorite ruralist's world of foolishness, love and loss. it struck me this time through with chris, that he is a master at making lyric fit his voice and delivery. it only sounds effortless. we rolled the dice a few times musically, rocked some, make you wanna cry sad and slow, played it straight down the middle on some and "all points in between" (sung w/ billy gibbon's accent, mercy!).  don't know when the release date on it'll be, but those that need to know can go to chris' my space site and get updates in about a month.

i've already blabbed about the db& homemade sin cd, but i still like it a bunch, and that don't stink.

the 1st of the 3 records i worked on is a band out of texas that joshua jones at the range 95.3 fm in dallas threw my way that won his "don't dare call this a battle of the bands" contest last year. truckstop junkies is the name. some wonderful tunes, fine playing and the dulcet tones of noah's voice make it a really good ride. visit the range, truckstop junkies, or shiner records sites for more.

i've seen far too much of ben strano for the past 5 months, and i'm sure he feels the same. i'll miss his smart-ass sooner or later, but we may be back at it in june, who knows. thanks for staying on the beam amigo.

i'll be in touch from over-yonder with what promises to be smack-down rock and roll tour with the quireboys and the diamond dogs.

db 4/22/08

 

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ok so the story on 805 -

for a while i did some dates with trent summar and the new row mob on guitar last couple of years (one on bass, but we won't talk about that). anyway we were in n.y.c. at the rodeo bar on some country music awards week or another (i can't remeber that crap), but we were there to bring trent's farm rock extravaganza to the people. we had ken mcmahan on guitar, dave kennedy on drums, supe granda on the bass he played on" jackie blue", myself, trent, and a piano/organ guy named michael webb.

now, we were supposed to go on at midnight, we were supposed to get a sound check, we were supposed to have reserved parking. well, for various reasons none of the above happened. we did get loaded in, but they were doing a "live radio interview/brodcast" from the afore mentioned rodeo bar's main stage. it was someone i should remember, but for the life of me i don't. well it seems that to keep the interview loose the station, or the club, or someone in control of such things decided it would be nice for the interviewees to have a bunch of tequilla, jagermiester and beer in a cardboard box on stage right (supe and i were on stage left under the stinkin' bison head they must think is so frickin' cute). the interview concludes and they leave the box with it's treasures mostly untouched where it lay.

well we didn't get onto the stage until about 1 am, and well, maybe michael had a few libations by then (not much else to do) and as we finally start he discovers the magic cardboard box. he passes a few brews around to those that do (ken and i are the squares), and we proceed to do what we do, while michael digs further into said box. now, mr.webb is a very good b-3 player, and good b-3 players layout of the 1st verse and come back in on the 1st chorus. now that's a good 20 seconds every 4 minutes with little to do but dig even further into the box.

now ken says that about an hour in michael motions him over and when ken gets in range mike grabs ken by the collar, yanks him halfway across the b-3 and says "whooooooo" in his face in the time honered "rebel yell" tradition. ken claims the fumes were mighty already, but nothing is going to prepare us all for the sight about to unfold.

we were rockin' it pretty damn good when supe nudges me and points to stage right where ken is nearly doubled over laughing. for a good 15-20 seconds michael has his head back, right hand on the highest key on the b-3 with the left arm pointing nearly straight up with the first finger pointing up to the heavens and he is statue still except for a slight headbanging motion. this vision of pure rock burns itself into my brain.

the rest of the night goes fine, we rib michael about it after the show but at the time he's too gassed to pay us much mind and we part ways the next a.m., but not before all of us try re-creating the moment for his hungover self. we wish him well on his other gig that night and the rest of us head back to nashville. throughout the long ride back we're remembering, laughing and wondering off and on what michael webb was saying, channeling, emoting in that moment.

as we pull into a taco bell in west virginia i ask trent what time it is, and he replies 8:05. it hits me like a ton of bricks; micky's big hand is on the 1 and his little hand is on the 8. oh dear god, he was trying to say it was 8:05. we call him immediately and tell him "we got what you were trying to tell us" and proceed to pass the phone around and let him know "we get it". he is re-named at that moment and will forever be 805 to me. he has a clock in his studio forever set at that time which i saw again today as he was layin' it down on our new record. i love that guy. he's the only keyplayer that makes me wish b-3s and leslies weren't so damn heavy.

db 2/25/08

ok gang - i'll give this bloggin' a try.

to catch folks up to speed, warner joined up with us in europe this october to give a hand as we were 1 guitarist short of a band, and it worked. i mean it worked. we had a blast and it was decided real quick that this might be worth recording some new tunes.

we had a few stockpiled from when ken was in the band and knew we had a start. wrote one over in denmark and had such a good time doin' it, that i thought we can play together and create together, hell this might work out.

warner and i got terry to come down in january and the writing marathon was on. wrote 4, 2 stuck. tommy wolmack came over a few times and we hit the bell quite a few times. i can't even remember how many tunes, but at least 3. we wrote about 15 tunes in a 3 week span and a great majority of the record comes out of those writing sessons. granted, some of the tunes just stunk, so they went to the island of unwanted songs.

1st free time we all had was the begining (5th) of february, so we worked on tunes until our feb 8th show. did the show and went in westwood studio the next day, loaded in and with our engineer (but that word don't tell the whole story) ben strano, went at it tooth and nail for 5 days. for those of you who know recording, we're using 3 main vocals and 6-7 solos from the basic takes. for those of you that don't know recording, that's pretty damn good.

sent keith and mauro home and moved back to warner's home to overdub. guitar cabnet in the closet, acoustic guitar station in his bedroom and vocals in the upstairs bathroom. thank you warner and deb (between the writing and recording and putting up mauro and keith,she did not gripe once that i know of about having her home occupied for over a solid 6 weeks. medal of honor).

we're going to 805's (michael webb, i'll tell y'all later) studio tomorrow to overdub a few b-3 and piano tracks, then on to ben's home (and ruin his new love life) to mix. we ought to be done in about 2 weeks. mick brown's gonna try to put it out may 12th.

we've done good work so far, wish us luck.

db 2/24/08

Link to the review here

Homemade Sin
Exit/In, Nashville
Feb. 8, 2008

There is that left leg, pumping like electroshock set to a quick-strike metronome. It's attached to the black-headed, pork-pie-hat-wearing yowler who hurls himself at the mic without ever losing solid contact with the floor beneath his sneakers. This guy is a true believer, and he ain't afraid to let it rock. This man is Dan Baird.

Baird has brought his new band Homemade Sin, with Jason & The Scorchers guitarist Warner Hodges, to Nashville after extended European tours to let it fly, and see how it lands back home. It is an act of faith and an act of combustion, pure and simple. Hard-core, three-chord rock & roll with a steam-engine backbeat and Baird's drawlin' howl that's all the yowl of a mountain cat with its balls caught in barbed wire.

No fuss, no muss. Just four grown men on a clean stage, walking out, plugging in and hitting the downstroke. Quick buzz, blur and straight into The Georgia Satellite's "I Dunno" with as much charge-load as anything The Replacements' or The Ramones ever served up, lyrics flying, guitars whirling, and a sense of thrilling release about finally getting it all out.

It's a funny thing about The Satellites: For the people who got it, they were the real-deal throttle and exhilaration that touched on the great ones: Stones, Faces, The Who, Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, Buddy Holly, without ever dropping a downstroke. To drive-by observers, they were one merely one more band punching it out in the bars, surfing a very lucky Warhol 15 by virtue of a novelty song that worked the oldest axiom mothers had plied on their daughters coming into puberty since the '50s.

Ironically, for Baird — who sets it up with "I don't know, maybe you don't wanna hear the huggy-kissie song" — "Keep Your Hands To Yourself" has become its own blaring insurrection manifesto. Sure, it's been played in bars, on concert stages and frat houses every night for the past two decades, but in Homemade Sin's hands, the down-on-the-groove classic is almost a salacious confrontation. It's the rage against the assumptions, the dismissals, and, of course, the unthinking denial of hormonal meltdown.

Not that it was all full-rut blaring. When Baird slowed things down for the gut-ripping "All Over But The Crying," it was the attenuated moment of reckoning for a faithless girl who thinks she's smarter than the guy — only to realize, he's letting her play her game, because he's done. By dropping the pilot light to a slow, quiet flame, single notes hitting the stage like stakes going through the floor, the intensity draws the room to a hush.

That kind of a witness at a rock show is staggering. In some cases more staggering even than the ability to take late middle-aged women who're well into their fade and return them to their former 20-something, hottie glory, shaking their asses as if anyone still cared — or the paunchy guy well past his rock & roll prime pawing his dates crotch right out in the open.

But that's the alchemy: dissolving time and propriety, releasing the inner beast in the people. And that's what Homemade Sin does. Down on the dance floor, the normally reserved flung themselves at the stage, roiling and boiling like it was the second-to-last night of Spring Break and they couldn't believe life was so good.

And it's not that life is so good. It's that Baird, Hodges, veteran bass player Keith Christopher and Satellites drummer Mauro Magellan haven't forgotten. Indeed, they recognize the power of Hodges' whipping Creedence's "Fortunate Son" into a frenzy, of the dumb-kid ardor of Baird's solo demi-hit "I Love You, Period," of the jettison punch of why even bother with what went wrong "6 Years Gone," and the surging bolt of "Railroad Steel."

Feel it. Put it all down. Spin it out with a couple Telecasters and a beat that'll topple the constraints that bind you. Do it with dignity. Do it tight. Do it hard. It's not about showing off — though Hodges can toss a guitar over his shoulder at rapid speed — but about getting it done. Period.

Perhaps for the true believers, there is a moment where the doubt rolls back and the fact that all there is is a tweed amp and some reverb that'll save you is the reason a band like Homemade Sin doesn't just matter, they're critical. Certainly "Younger Face" offers a heightened interpretation, but it's not about what was, staggering though that might be; no, it's about what is — that new songs like "Leave Well Enough Alone" and "2 For Tuesday" bristle with the same static electricity that made the gap-toothed lightning which The Satellites struck with all those years ago.

In a world where it's about marketing, demographics and what will the radio play, the argument could be made, this doesn't fit. But to a churning catharsis of too many people in Nashville's legendary Exit/In wondering "where did all the music that hit hard with melodic thrust go?," they're essential.

Because in the end, there is no substitute. You can talk all you want, but you either rock or you don't. Without bands like this, though, it won't be long before people won't have any measure to judge the difference. That is perhaps even more important than a jam-packed, 90 minutes that quoted from T. Rex ("Bang A Gong") and the Beach Boys ("Do You Wanna Dance?") on its way to a wind-up, wind-out of the revving "Railroad Steel" into the bawdy, drawling tale of white-trash heart throb "Dixie Beauderaunt."

In times like these, it is bold men who lean into the reverb, throw caution to the wind and let it rock. Homemade Sin has that boldness in their veins and sustain, and they came to let it rock. Whew, thank God somebody remembers how.
— Holly Gleason