Broke Down
Liner Notes
2000
by Steve Brooks
Broke
down. Again. On a muggy June night, somewhere East of Memphis, Slaid
and his band are trying to reach Nashville by dawn. It's been a hundred
miles since the first flat. This time, it's the spare that blows.
For
Slaid, this is riding in style. He's left his '74 Dart with the John
Deere paint job back home in Texas and picked up a '77 Dodge van. It's
got an honest-to-goodness bunk in the back, so he can conk out while
someone else takes the wheel. Besides, when something goes wrong, this
is the kind of old beast he generally can fix.
Sure
enough, he patches the tire, and they roll on into Music City. The band
chows down, while Slaid flips through the Yellow Pages. He finds a set
of four Tiger Paws for $100. "I got a great deal," he beams. They drop
his bass player at the airport, and they're off.
After
a night at a Day's Inn in Atlanta, and an opener at Eddie's Attic, they
slice through the red clay hills to Birmingham. It's a gig from heaven.
City Stages is one of the biggest festivals in the South, and he sells
25 CDs. The next morning, the local paper runs his pic and gushes that
Slaid Cleaves deserves to be the next big thing in American music.
The
next big thing stashes the clip and pulls out for Chicago at 80 miles
an hour. By the time they hit the Dan Ryan, the valves are clattering
and the oil pressure's gone. Slaid pulls into a parking lot to survey
the damage, while his agent takes a dip in Lake Michigan. They limp in
to the gig that night, at the venerable Schuba's. Come morning, Slaid's
cancelled that night's date in Michigan, and he's looking for a
transmission jock. Broke down. Again.
In the world according to Slaid, things fall apart. Somewhere between
here and the bridge to the 21st Century, somebody put up a detour sign.
Yuppies may be riding the freeways, but Slaid's citizens are flatbed
ghosts, condemned to rattle along the gravel roads of a downsized
America as their lives shear apart, bolt by bolt.
It's
an America in which the onetime dream's become a lost lover, someone
who dances with a new partner as you glare obsessively across the pool
table at the Horseshoe Lounge. Your parents' promise, that you could
work hard and get ahead, malingers like a broken wedding vow. "I gave
everything I had," says a weary farmer, as sickness gnaws away his wife
and kids. "Got nothing left to show."
Somehow,
though, the center holds. Slaid graces his most down-and-out characters
with a dignity that rises well above circumstance. Sometimes they go
out in a blaze of glory, like the legendary Canadian lumberjack Sandy
Gray. Sometimes they make the worst choices, like Sherry, who abandons
a loveless marriage for a sweet-talking con man. Whatever their
stories, Slaid lets you know they're doing the best they can.
Above
all, they're survivors. With a little luck and baling wire, they'll
keep the old van on the road, long enough to make it to one more show.
"My pride is gone," he says, "but I'm still here somehow. Bring it on."
Give him one good year, a little respite from the slings and arrows,
and he'll get his feet back on the ground.
Things
could be worse. A Chicago reporter does a thirty-inch writeup. The next
day, Slaid's picture is splashed across the entertainment section of
the daily paper back home, which has barely acknowledged his existence.
He's sitting on the hood of a car. Meanwhile, a fan from Schuba's has
lent his Lexus for the day. Cruising around Chicago, Slaid finds a
cigar-chomping mechanic who'll work on his engine in a dirt driveway.
Just in time and $600 lighter, he's headed for Indiana. The oil
pressure's better, but still not fixed. It hovers between 20 and 10 as
the van pulls a steady 55 down the Interstate.
In
Rockport, Indiana, it parks beside an American Legion Hall. The
listeners are anything but your typical folk crowd. It's
Saturday night, and these broke-down veterans are swilling Bud and
swapping stories of glory days.
Slaid's
three-piece band kicks in, and they quiet down. He may be a kid,
separated from them by a generation or two, but there's something
timeless about his songs that bridges the gulfs between the Depression
and the Great War and the next millenium. He yodels a Hank Williams
lament, and they stamp their feet. He sings Cold and Lonely, and they
shiver with the memory. When the gig's over, they talk him up as long
as they can keep him.
Out
in the parking lot, Slaid turns the ignition key, and a giant spark
leaps across his feet. Nothing moves. It's 2 a.m., and he's under the
hood with a flashlight. He splices in a jumper wire, bypasses the short
circuit, and the engine cranks back to life. Only 20 more hours home to
Austin.
Back in Austin, Slaid settles back into the routine. On Monday nights,
he's running sound at Artz Rib House, where Sarah Elizabeth Campbell
croons her songs of hopeless love. Between the occasional local dates,
he's looking for a house and writing songs for his next album.
Or
he's "down on the Pharm," as they say in Austin, earning rent by
testing new drugs at Pharmaco. He's far from the only musician doing
time in the dormitory. Sometimes they whip out guitars and attract a
crowd, in-between blood draws. Before he's out, he's sold a couple of
CDs.
He
may be barely getting by, like a character from his songs, but at least
he's getting by. More important, he's bringing his music to new
audiences everywhere he goes.
"I
loved every minute of that trip," he says. "Playing with good
musicians. Having some great gigs. I remind myself that I'm the lucky
one."
In
Key Chain, the hero loses his wife, his job and his home, but he's
still one key left. He sticks it in the ignition. "I'm turning that
key, lettin' out the clutch/I never did like this town that much."
Slaid Cleaves is back on the road, break down dead ahead and bound for
glory.
Steve Brooks
Frog Records
Austin, Texas
Broke Down credits |
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