My late editor-pal Tony Durr was editing one of my columns 40 years ago, when he looked up at me, caution in his voice and on his face: “You wear your feelings on your sleeve. It’s what makes you a great writer. It’s also what will kill you,” he said, then pretty much repeated himself: “But, it does give you your greatness.”
“Greatness” is only a perception of the audience, of
course. And it’s why I can unabashedly
boast that two of my friends, infused a dash with the spirit of a mutual friend
whose illness took him too soon, have made a masterpiece. Greatness on display
for all to hear.
Simple Motion, the new album by Eric Brace and Thomm
Jutz, fit my generally melancholy spirit well the first time I decided to
listen to the whole album, in sequence. And I played it again on my daily trek
on my recumbent exercise bike.
I’ll first say that this is a masterful album, the best yet
from the evolving outfit of musicians.
A decade or more ago, Brace teamed with Peter Cooper to make
music and mix in highly tuned mirth.
Both had been music journalists. Both had been raised around the great
D.C.-area folk/musical godfathers The Seldom Scene. They both idolized the story songs of Tom T.
Hall, as well as worshiped in person at the altar that was Fox Hollow, the Hall
estate where I too was a regular visitor. (This isn’t about me, but I was a
close friend of the late Tom T. and Dixie Hall, primarily because Dixie loved
me and vice versa. I have a carved, Jamaican wood angel looking at me to prove
it. Plus a heart that still feels that love.)
Anyway, both Cooper and Brace had other musical outlets and
solo prospects in which they turned out what, to my biased mind, were Sunday-afternoon-mood
classics.
But there was a certain chemistry between the two that made
for great music. Cooper, the dearest of my friends in the music business and on
a personal level, and Brace not only recorded duet albums, they began playing
live, first at places like Nashville’s Station Inn, but on the road, from
Kingsport, Tennessee, to pubs in England, Ireland and on the continent. Sleep
in the bar’s backroom, wash out stage clothes in the bathroom sink. Have a drink. Start over again.
Early on, they acquired a producer and guest guitarist in
Thomm Jutz, one of Music City’s best guitarists and a German expat, lured from
the Black Forest of Germany by Bobby Bare (long story, look it up in my book Pilgrims,
Pickers and Honky-Tonk Heroes, which you should read, anyway) to U.S.
citizen, dwelling and music-making in Southeast Davidson County. A scholar,
kind soul and mammothly-talented picker, he set up a studio and honed his
guitar-playing abilities to the point where he might be the best of the thirteen-hundred
fifty-two guitar-pickers in Nashville. (That number comes from one of my friends and
heroes, John Sebastian, leader of Lovin’ Spoonful and singer of “Nashville
Cats.” The song was written in the 1960s at the Holiday Inn Vanderbilt, where
the Spoonful stayed after a concert in Municipal Auditorium. I always make John
tell me the story again when we talk.)
Anyway, it wasn’t long before Thomm not only played as a
guest onstage and on-album (while still producing), he eventually became the
third member of the band. Brace-Cooper recordings and performances were
supplanted by Brace-Cooper-Jutz.
They are marvelous recordings and I am blessed that – thanks
to my loyalty to Peter, who was among my life’s favorite people and one of my
few confidantes – I went to performances consisting of all of those
configurations, along with some of the best sidemen (steely Lloyd Green and Steve
Fishell and Pete Finney, bassist Dave Roe, the miracle that is Rory Hoffman) and
sidewomen (see Andrea Zonn, fiddle, and Sierra Hull, mandolin, who both own
pieces of my heart. Andrea, in particular, makes me melt with her bow). I even
met and befriended wonderful and kind Jerry Lawson, the best and most soulful
voice of the old Persuasions, thanks to these guys. Eric “rediscovered” his doo-wop
hero and made a record filled with Nashville Cats. The debut was at the Station, where, due to
mobility issues, Jerry asked me to help him on and off the stage.
Those Station Inn shows, (one or two per year) were some of
my happiest evenings. Heck, I even took
my son, Joe, along with me five or six times. The B-C-J song “Hartford’s Bend”
is Joe’s favorite song. Mine is “Strawberry Fields Forever,” but that has
nothing to do with this tale. But, let
me take you down, indeed:
Something happened just before the pandemic settled in on
America. Peter got sick. It was an
illness that kept him from going on the road (though, everybody eventually
stopped going on the road because of COVID.)
Eric and Thomm, though, tried hard to keep performing, while
lamenting and saluting their friend, praying to the gut-string gods that they
could be a trio again. His health deteriorated.
They missed him a lot as they tried to live up to his expectations while
he stayed here in Nashville, writing songs and sometimes calling me at night to
sing them. Eventually that illness caused Peter to fall, hit his head and die.
He’d been reciting lyrics to me that very morning.
That last sentence was difficult for me to write, because
normally, most days for the last 24 years, I’d be calling Peter, sick or not, and
we’d laugh (he was funny, I profane) and sometimes even make up vulgar songs.
Those soul-lifting – for us both, I believe -- conversations
ended when he died around the 2022 holiday weeks, and there remains a void and even
a bit of bitterness and plenty of melancholy loneliness (self-pity at having someone
else die seems selfish, but I yam what I yam, as Tom Petty used to sing with
Howie.)
The other day, a part of the void was filled when I listened
to the first song to be released by the new duo configuration of that same
group, Brace and Jutz.
It was a great song about “Nashville in the Morning,” a
somehow optimistic portrayal of a city (my home for a half-century) that is
choking in its own progress and gagging over its national identity crisis and
stumbling over the promise of three pair of boots for the price of one. Their song’s
focus is on the dewy beauty that remains here, just past dawn, before
bachelorettes and California-bred carpetbaggers line the streets with drunken
silliness and reckless driving and projectile vomiting.
I actually agree to that beauty, as the great John Partipilo
shot the cover for my book at 5 a.m. on a brisk morning when the streets were
empty even as the neon still danced on Lower Broadway.
Simple Motion is a giant musical and journalistic
step forward, a vocal and guitar delight filled with imagery and life. Also,
what’s missing in this album is the third voice, the higher-harmony of Peter
Cooper, his contributions on rhythm guitar, his sarcastic worldview. No “Grandma’s Batman Tattoo” --a
crowd-pleasing romp written by Peter and my pal Tommy Womack -- reminiscent
stuff in this set.
Peter’s missing, of course, because he’s dead. Damn it (not
him).
But he’s on Simple Motion in spirit. In fact, he appears,
or at least his spirit does, in a few of the songs. I’m not going to tell you
which ones, but if you knew Peter, you’ll recognize the hat-tips, the bridges
and flowing water, name-check and life boundaries offered by the still-living duo
of musical partners in that fabulous trio.
I am not a music critic. I am, foremost, a music fan but
mostly a lover of humanity, with thousands of pieces of recorded music. I
generally draw from only a few artists for my daily listening. Seldom the day
goes by when I haven’t listened to John, Paul, George and Ringo for at least an
hour.
Petty, Mick and Keef, Kristofferson, Dylan and the Wilburys
make up most of my daily soundtrack.
I do pull out one of my albums by Nashville’s best country
singer, Jon Byrd (I only have two of his, as I am poor, but I do love his
music.) Mac Wiseman gets his spins.
And always there’s the work of my favorite local musician
and his amigos.
Peter gave me copies of all the albums he did as a solo
artist, and I have wrangled up most of the B-C and B-C-J albums. Being an almost-never-paid freelance writer
and author (my book, Pilgrims, Pickers and Honky-Tonk Heroes, continues
to sell, but there’s not enough sexual fantasy, dysfunctional incestuous royalty
nor exploding massive reptile penises in it to make it a top seller.) In truth,
it’s a pure-as-country-water look into the lives of many of my best friends,
most of them dead, in the music business. Speaking of my too-often dead corps
of pals, Peter wrote the Foreword and also edited each chapter as I finished
it. He was my biggest cheerleader. “Only you can write this book,” he’d say.
“You have to finish it.” I did. Then he died.
Sure, I miss him a lot. And he should have been producing
great music for years to come. He should be the third voice on Simple Motion.
But, you know, as you listen to this absolutely fabulous
album, likely the best put together during all phases of this group’s
existence, he’s still there. No, you
can’t hear his voice in the magnificent harmonies, but you can feel his heart.
Eric Brace and Thomm Jutz have many different musical
endeavors. Eric has the great band Last Train Home and Thomm is an
award-winning, Grammy nominated bluegrass music writer and picker, almost to
the point where they will put a “national treasure sign” on his battered
Fedora.
Eric -- whose voice and songs, themselves, have matured -- startles
and cajoles. A comparison to Gordon
Lightfoot is warranted, but I’m not sure it does Eric’s booming vocals justice.
Thomm’s matured. He’s not much like his hero, Bobby Bare,
but his soft, pure vocals and sure guitar are reminiscent of “Fire and Rain”-
era Sweet Baby James. Like James Taylor,
his pure tales have teardrops in them, even if the subject evokes smiles. Or
perhaps a comparison to John Denver, a too-often-disregarded poet of fire and
life and sweet home, is warranted.
They also are really nice guys who stood by their friend
during his illness, decline and death and who kept him in mind as they carried
the torch forward.
I still will listen to Peter’s Opening Day solo masterpiece,
if I’m able.
But Peter’s
participation in “his” group’s musical progress will, by tragic necessity,
lessen. Brace-Cooper-Jutz will forever
be just Brace and Jutz, B-J.
Ghosts don’t make for
good sidemen.
But there is hope, depending on your beliefs. For example, I speak with my old editor, Durr, regularly, even though he died alone and lonely long ago.
Spirits -- at least by my reckoning as I sit here with
emotions dancing on my sleeves -- live forever, kept alive in the souls of
those who loved the deceased: guys like Eric and Thomm, who are loyal to the
trio in its latest two-voiced incarnation. With Simple
Motion.
Another fabulous piece Tim. I would only pick you up on one point. You ARE ALSO a music critic, in the best sense of the word.
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