I was recently asked what I enjoy listening to as an inspiration or background in my studio. Like most artists, I do not have a particular favorite in music makers nor genre. I take what I can synchronize my movements with, in body and spirit—sounds that amplify the depth of the colors and the sensuality of forms. I listen to music that creates for me an atmosphere best suited to a vision quest at hand. Most times, it is radio sounds that fill that need. I am somewhat tired of the old standards when I am trying to move forward. I feel that I need to know newer voices and passions. I need the freshness that used to speak my longings, like voices of the young John Prine, the soaring angst of Van Morrison and a bit of Gary Stewarts’ lethal injections. I want music from the depth of human experiences, not a quick invite to fill fleeting emotions.
With that anticipation and invitation, I step into Rock-it-Man every so often to find that newness. There is always something on the audio that tunes my ear in. Sometimes, they are sounds I am not familiar with yet are so palatable. At times, I am moved by older standards, neo-classics and simple fun stuff. I am never a fast shopper in music stores. Half the fun is tracing the graphics of the CD covers with my eyes. They are not what vinyl LP covers used to be, but that is a topic for another time. My thanks to Fred from the Wine Loft and Ben from our local and best music store for great leads.
I had a good fortune to have an ear eagerly uncovering new music beginning in the early 1970s. Growing up in the company of AM radio was a blessing to a young boy coming of age on the Rez. We had no electrical power, thus no TV or other entertainment media. KOMA, an Oklahoma City AM station, was my musical schooling. We listened with great interest long into the night. That was back when radio formats played all kinds of genres one right after another. I heard sweet melodies: the Beatles made next to the angst of Hank Williams, Iron Butterfly following Johnny Cash and Beethoven. I feel that I was freed from the tethers of a particular niche in popular music, and that is good. In the outback of the Rez where no hint of modernity existed, where the full moon rose on the choruses of crickets and bullfrogs, we laughed and mimicked dances. We listened, I heard.
I enjoyed the full spectrum of sounds from the Stones to Dylan, from the Sons of Champlain to Woody Guthrie, who told me that this land is my land. It was. I wandered from bubblegum to R&B. At the same time, I found the words that spoke to me in country music. That was when country had soul and one didn’t need to wear hats. My teen years are still marked by the Rez country bands—the Undecided Takers and the Fenders, along with the Wingate Valley Boys. I related to the pains and celebrations of those great sounds of Nashville. Merle Haggard, George Jones, Ferlin Huskey and the great Roy Acuff. Waylon and Willie dominated my eight-track deck, and after they fought Nashville and the rebel movement, they led to the outlaw sounds. I endured many defeats and celebrated as much in love to the sounds these outlaws made. In my cowboy years, their chords were up there along with the beautiful single note of belt buckles hitting the floor.
A decade hence, what music will I embrace and call a muse? Who will tickle my spirit and beckon me, like a siren, into new challenges? What will be my few deserted island music essentials? What are today’s Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks, Willie Nelson’s Red Headed Stranger and the Clash’s London’s Calling?
I will get back to my canvas with Cat Power, with Regina Spektor and the incomparable Loretta Lynn. Lavender, the great peacemaker, dominates my palette today. Happy Holidays.
