ALL GREASED UP, ONE TACO TO GO

ALL GREASED UP, ONE TACO TO GO

FEATURES

DOWN ON THE DRAG WITH JOE ELY

by

Rob Patterson

Joe Ely shares a trait with another product of Texas, for like Dr. Pepper, he’s one of “America’s most misunderstood.” Similar to another fellow native of Lubbock, Buddy Holly, Ely writes songs from a country base but plays rock ’n’ roll. Yet he operates as if there’s not a hint of contradiction in anything he does.

“I still consider myself a country artist,” he says, although the context in which he makes the statement belies the fact that this ol’ country boy’s a man of many worlds. The last two major acts he toured with were Linda Ronstadt and the Clash—hardly musical bedmates, but both Ely admirers. He sits in Katz’s, Austin’s, Texas’s New York style deli, looking the epitome of “punkabilly” (Ely’s description of his direction) , which I guess is somewhere between a plate of nachos and hot pastrami.

Ely recounts his first encounter with the Clash, when much to his surprise Joe Strummer appeared backstage after a club giq of Ely’s in London. “He asked me why I didn’t sing ‘She Never Spoke Spanish To Me.’ Now if you think about what the Clash are all about, that’s not what you’d expect Joe Strummer to be into. But he’s into all kinds of stuff.” Obviously the fact that Mr. “White Riot” enjoyed Ely’s most plaintive and beautiful ballad impressed him a lot, and Ely was able to return the favor later when he played the Clash’s version of “I Fought The Law” for the song’s author, Sonny Curtis, another Lubbock musician and Holly contemporary.

Despite the fact that Ely’s singular musical hybrid makes him “a walkin’, talkin’ contradiction” (to borrow from Kris Kristofferson), he exudes the innate knowledge that his time has come. His garb and personal style are pure Ely crossover—patent leather boots with jeans tucked in (although Joe is known for the one jean leg in, one-out style), glitzy tux jacket over a cowboy shirt adorned with silver “Joe Ely” collar tips and string tie, all topped with slicked-back-brilliantine hair. Pure Texas punkabilly.

For those who first heard of Ely through the Clash connection, the idea of a Texanbred country singer being “punkabilly” may seem sacriligious to the memory of Saint Sid. Ely’s latest, Musta Notta Gotta Lotta, isn’t London Calling or Sandinista, although certain parallels exist.

Ely admits that there’s a sense of mutual influence between himself and the Clash. “Because of the experience of playing with them, I wanted to make this album a little more up-beat rockabilly. And on London Calling and the new album, you can hear them using stuff like a walking bass and that’s real rockabilly. Both of us are growing and learning more about our music, and I think playing together had some influence on all of us.”

Especially Ely guitarist Jesse Taylor, whose formerly shoulder-length locks and beard and moustache are now shorn to a clean-shaven, sleek punkabilly hair-do. “They kept sayin’ to me, ’come on Jesse, you look like some old hippie. Let us take you for a haircut. Finally one night,” says the soft-spoken axe-man, “they talked me into it.” Jesse looked into the dressing room mirror and slides his comb through his hair. “Now I’d never have long hair again. ”

Appearances are deceiving. “After Jesse cut his hair, I’d have people tell me things like, ‘Hey Joe, that new guitar player’s OK but I sure liked ol’ Jesse,’ or ‘Sure glad you got that new guy and got ridda Jesse,”’ Ely recounts. Of course anyone who could look and listen will see the same guitar strap stamped “Jesse” and hear the same style.

I'm still a country singer, but that sure ain't all that lam.

So while Ely’s finally found a musical place somewhere between Nashville, Tennessee and London’s Nashville pub, it’s little more than a natural progression. On first emerging from Lubbock in 1977, Ely was a breath of fresh air amidst the country music scramble for tepid pop crossover or outlaw status. Ely was neither, while both a crossover artist and certainly outside Nashville’s unwritten codes.

Distinguished by superior songs (by Ely himself and Lubbock mates Butch Hancock and Jimmie Dale Gilmore), healthy knowledge of and respect for tradition coupled with youthful, modern energy, Ely seemed to have the greatest potential for making country really modern and accessible by all parties, punks to polyesters, since the legendary Gram Parsons (who associated with everyone from Keith Richards to Buck Owens).

A visit with Ely in Lubbock introduced me to a quiet, unassuming man whose experiences were as broad as the West Texas plains he calls home. With an almost Woody Guthrie-like Spirit, Ely left home to play country dives, hop freights, pick fruit on the migrant worker circuit, work with the circus, play the Greenwich Village folk scene and hang out on the L.A. beaches and even, travel through Europe with a Texan theater company. To paraphrase Gram Parsons, 20,000 roads he went down, and they all brought him back to Lubbock.

There he found a band and honed his style in brown bag honky tonks like Lubbock’s Cotton Club, a cinder block bar so tough that the balcony is enclosed in chicken wire. With audiences as disposed to bashing as the fiercest punk rocker, Ely developed his style with a fleet-footed efficiency and high audience satisfaction factor.

Wandering through the empty club, inhaling the stench of stale beer, Ely recounted his many nights there. “Man, this place get’s so packed and wild, all you can do is keep playing.’” When he had to fight the spittle from the Clash fans, it wasn’t anything new.

After two rather representative albums recorded in Nashville and one slight downer that was cut in (of all places) Seattle with producer Bob Johnston, Ely looked to some admirers like he was losing the steam of his brilliant leap onto the scene. Then— suddenly—on the heel of his Clash dates came Live Shots, the type of fiery live performances that endeared Ely to many admirers finally caught on disc. MCA, who still couldn’t decide if Ely was country, rock, or what, decided it best to not release it in America.

That might stop other artists, but Ely went back into the studio with a revamped band and a new producer (Michael Brovsky) and a new home—Austin, Texas, the epicenter of any Texan musical scene. The results on Musta Notta Gotta Lotta are both exciting and accessible.

“I finally got to do an album like I wanted to,” Ely says. Without falling into any preconceived bag, the disc is all of what Ely represents and calls upon in his music: country, rock, blues, western; swing, rhythm and blues, Tex-Mex, Cajun music.. .whatever the moment calls for.

The new Joe Ely is even more a musical wellspring than his last. Taylor’s ripping leads and Ponti Bone’s sweet accordian still sparkle over a new, thunderingly powerful rhythm section. Chicago-born Smokey Joe Miller adds the lure of his horn work while pianist Reese Wynans introduces the boogie-woogie piano also inherent in Ely’s sound. Just a taste of the band on the album whetted my curiosity.

Arriving in Dallas to catch Joe at the Texas Music Awards show, his music already seems a perfect soundtrack. As the jet glides into “The Biggest Airport In The World,” Ely’s version of Gilmore’s “Dallas” comes to mind: “Have you ever seen Dallas from a DC-9 at night? Dallas is a jewel, Dallas is a beautiful sight, but Dallas is a jungle that gives off such a beautiful light.

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Arriving at the hotel, I find Ely outside, filled with a genuinely buoyant energy. Amidst a show that does a better job of congratulating those who help Texans hear music than bring the music to Texans, Ely spends his time thinking music. He chats with Roy Orbison and listens intently to the evening’s openers, a Tex-Mex band with two more Joe’s fronting their “Familia.” With Joe “King” Carrasco topping the bill, I’m tempted to call it the Joe show.

But the thundercrack of the evening is Ely’s set, which only echoes through the barely-filled hall. Despite a punchy showing, Ely’s manager insists I follow them back to Austin for another show, an offer difficult to refuse.

Climbing aboard the plane the next day, I run into Joe “King” Carrasco. As we discuss certain female reasons why we don’t want to visit Dallas for a while, the Ely soundtrack fires up with the jet engines: “Dallas is a woman who’ll walk on you when you’re down, but when you’re up, she’s the kind you wanna take around. But Dallas ain’t a woman who’ll help you get your feet on the ground.”

But landing in the sunny hill country of Austin, suddenly the harsh city fades into friendly country. Carrasco spies Chuck Berry leaving the airport, tonight’s co-headliner with the Ely band. “Hey man,” Carrasco approaches him. “I made an album last year with all your licks on it.” Berry looks like he doesn’t know what to think.

That night Ely and company pound into their set from the first note of “Hard Living,” and spin out a show where the spirit of Hank Williams (who OD’d long before Sid Vicious), Buddy Holly and Jimmie Rodgers stand beside the life of contemporary rock ’n’ roll. The music travels with the speed and power of a semi, from the West Texas plains to Louisiana swamplands, often in one song. v

Berry takes the stage and Ely’s there to listen, dancing along through two stupendous sets. After the show we dart off to try and catch Fort Worth’s The Ralphs, a neuvo-rockabilly band, and then on to a late-night party-club that seems all to familiar to anyone who’s hit the New York after-hours scene.

Finally ending up at Katz’s, Ely admits that he might live in New York someday, indicating that Austin is a step from Lubbock into the rock mainstream that might take him anywhere.

“It’s all just music to me,” he concludes. “Here you can hear punk bands, country singers, Tex-Mex...all kinds of stuff. I like that because it’s all music to me, from the Clash to real straight country stuff.

“I don’t know where it’ll take me, but I sure enjoy bein’ able to play what I really want and have audiences enjoy it. I play the same stuff for Clash audiences or opening for Linda Ronstadt, knd everyone seems to like it; I mean, I’m still a country singer...” he concludes with a pause. “But that sure ain’t all that I am. ” W