QUOTE OF THE WEEK: “Extraordinary how potent cheap music is. "
— Noel Coward

SONG OF THE WEEK: “Political Song For Michael Jackson to Sing”
— The Minutemen

Joe South
Anthology: A Mirror Of His Mind—Hits & Highlights 1968-75
(Raven, 2001)

You’ve been listening to Joe South all of your life, and you probably didn’t even know it. Who the hell is he? Where did he come from? What did he do? And where did he go? We’ll answer all of those questions and more as the ol’ Time Machine settles in for a cruise through the turbulent ’60s and early ’70s, following Joe’s storied career and songwriting triumphs. Born Joseph Alfred Souter on February 28, 1940, in Atlanta, Georgia, the future author of such pop/country nuggets as “(I Never Promised You) A Rose Garden,” “Games People Play,” “Hush,” “Don’t It Make You Want To Go Home,” “Down In The Boondocks,” and literally dozens more seemed destined for great heights early on.

Equally influenced by the swamp/country grooves and backwater Blues of the Deep South and the socially/politically-conscious folk movement spearheaded by Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger and Odetta, South displayed an inherent knack for the guitar at an early age. By 18, he’d begun his recording career, working with Atlanta DJ/Publisher Bill Lowery. His first single of note, a silly answer song to several novelty hits of the time called “The Purple People Eater Meets The Witch Doctor,” brought him first regional, then national attention.

He also hooked up with famed steel player Pete Drake’s band around that time, where he began making some connections in the music biz that would later pay off in spades—and eventually land him smack in the middle of one of the south’s most influential recording studios, Muscle Shoals. Splitting time between Atlanta (where he helped foster that city’s burgeoning rock n’ roll scene, palling around with the likes of Billy Joe Royal, members of Aretha Franklin’s band and various high-profile artists of the time who’d come down to record), Nashville and Alabama, South soon found himself in heavy demand as a session guitarist. Some of the more famous works he appears on include Bob Dylan’s Blonde On Blonde, Aretha’s first album and records by Sandy Posey and Solomon Burke.

But South wasn’t content with the behind-the-scenes trip—as the ’60s unfolded, he began to identify with the social dilemmas of the day: poverty, racism, war vs. peace, and social injustice, and to write songs about those subjects. He wrote several huge hits for others around this time, including “Down In The Boondocks” for his drinkin’ buddy Billy Joe Royal (stories abound of South’s legendary party antics, some of which later would lead to problems for him) and “Hush” for English hard rock/psychedelic outfit Deep Purple. But South had a burning desire to be in the spotlight, and with his connections, musical talent and uncanny knack for penning a hook to die for, he managed to score a record deal with Capitol in 1968.

Retrospect, his first solo effort, immediately set the bar for what was to come. The hit single from that album, 1969’s “Games People Play,” was a vicious, acerbic attack on the phonies, early PC-propagandists and simple backyard bullshitters he’d grown up around his entire life. Kicking off with a vaguely Indian/sitar riff and South’s low, easy vocal rumble, the song stood out as something different from the goofy, hippie-dippie tripe on AM radio and the too-stoned, noodling cacophony on FM: “Mmm...La da da da da, da da da da dee dee...” he intoned, as if the song would be another Archies or 1910 Fruitgum wank-fest. But then the knife goes in, and it goes in deep: “Whoa the games people play now/Every night and every day now/Never meaning what they say now/Never sayin’ what they mean/While they while away the hours in their ivory towers/’Til they’re covered up with flowers in the back of a black limousine...and it’s a dirty rotten shame...” Powerful stuff, brother, any which way you slice it, and sadly, more relevant than ever in today’s world.

He goes on to slay gossips, political hacks and religious/spiritual scammers alike: “People walkin’ up to you/Singin’ glory hallelujah/(ha, ha) And they try to sock it to you/In the name of the Lord/They’re gonna teach you how to levitate/Read your horoscope, cheat your fate/And furthermore to hell with hate/Come on get on board...” I point out these lyrics specifically, because it seems that as the years went on, South became just as disillusioned with his own philosophies as he once was with those of the Love Generation. To wit: “Now wait a minute!/Look around, tell me what you see/What’s happening to you and me?/God grant me the serenity/To just remember who I am/Cause you’ve given up your sanity/For your pride and your vanity/Turned your back on humanity, ow/And you don’t give a da-da-da...” Those lines don’t gel too well with later stories of South’s absolute disdain for his live audiences (he once reportedly ordered a crowd to “...form a line, dance your way to the stage, and kiss my ass...”), his liquor-fueled bacchanals and eventual drug bust. But hey, the ’60s fucked a lot of people up. Anyway, the song won him two Grammy Awards and gained him world-wide notoriety, and he was soon headlining shows across the country.

South’s career was a fast-paced, reckless blur from ’68 through the early ’70s. He released four more decent efforts in that era, and scored probably his biggest songwriting notoriety with Lynn Anderson’s countrified cover of his “(I Never Promised You A) Rose Garden” in 1971. Along the way, he did some production work, most notably with Classics IV featuring Dennis Yost (later to morph into the Atlanta Rhythm Section), who had a huge smash with the song, “Spooky.” Elvis Presley loved “Walk A Mile In My Shoes” so much he made it a staple of his later shows, and the hits just kept coming: “Don’t It Make You Want To Go Home,” “Birds Of A Feather” and his own versions of “Hush,” “Games” and “Boondocks” all hit home in various markets from Montgomery, Alabama to London, England.

Though not many details are readily available, Joe had apparently been working closely with his brother, a fellow musician, who committed suicide in 1971. That event took a huge toll on South, and though he performed for the next few years and released a whopping four albums between 1975 and 1976, he never again hit the top of the charts, either by himself or with one of his songs. Time has been kind to Joe, however, his heart-felt, honest lyrics and True American songwriting shining through over his youthful indulgences and long-forgotten ego trips. He’s a respected member of the Georgia Songwriter’s Hall of Fame, a revered icon to thousands of modern-day lyricists and (one would assume) still gets those big, fat royalty checks from all of the material he wrote for others. Public appearances these days are rare, but he’s still an intricate part of the Atlanta music scene, where he’s considered a forefather of several subsequent musical movements. He’s slipped in and out of the studio almost unnoticed a few times over the years, most notably to work with Solomon Burke and lay down harmony vocals for former Georgia Satellite Dan Baird’s 1996 album Buffalo Nickels.

But South’s real legacy lies in the fact that a poor, white Southern boy came up out of the mire of racism, poverty and social/political upheaval of the ’60s to pen some of the most poignant, soulful and memorable songs of the era—songs which, over the years, have grown so comfortably a part of the American song catalog that one sometimes forgets how prolifically talented the man was. A nice reminder is a recent album masterminded by Atlanta bassist Rob Douglas, who figured it was about time somebody in his generation gave a respectful nod to one of the south’s more talented native sons. The Joe South Tribute Record (available at JackPineSocialClub.com/Joe_South) is chock fulla some of the region’s (and beyond) most talented, South-influenced performers paying homage to the man. Chris Von Sneidern covers “Hush,” Kelly Hogan knocks “The Greatest Love” outta the park, Ron Silva does “I Knew You When,” Stephanie Finch delivers an awesome reading of “Children,” Chuck Prophet rocks out on “Don’t It Make You Want To Go Home” and Paul Cebar smooths out the classic “Untie Me.” A great tip o’ the ol’ mic to a worthy subject.

Speaking of subjects, let’s get back to Raven’s Best of Joe South collection. There are several best-of’s out there, including Capitol’s Classic Masters (12 tracks, including all the big hits but no tasty oddities like “Redneck,” “All My Hard Times” or “Bittersweet”), an earlier Raven compilation from 2001, Introspect/Don’t It Make You Want To Go Home, which is pretty nice with 22 cuts, but this 2002 update includes all of the above plus one (but no “The Purple People Eater Meets The Witch Doctor,” guess you’ll have to find that one on the ‘net) and some great liner notes and photos. Whichever you choose (or your budget allows), I dare you to listen to “Down In The Boondocks,” “Games People Play,” “Rose Garden,” “Hush” or “Untie Me” and not at least feel a minor twinge of either fuzzy nostalgia or comparison recognition. Even if you’ve never heard even a cover of a Joe South tune, they’re so universal, so powerful, and so true, only a shrivel-hearted, wicked little anti-rock-n-roll troll could even contemplate denying them. South may not have promised us a rose garden, but he certainly left us a window planter full of timeless classics—highly recommended.

Eric Anders
More Regret
(Baggage Room Records, 2004)

Zzzzip! All aboard!! Climb in the Ergo© for one more short blast, kids. It’s back to the recent past this time, where we’ll take a quick peek at the dark, exotic world of therapist/teacher turned musician/songwriter Eric Anders. Anders, a former writing teacher at the University of Florida and therapist for a nonprofit clinic, lays down songs that this album title, More Regret, describes to a “T.” From dreamy, unsettling guitar/feedback journeys of the soul, like the excellent “Together Alone,” to the spare, stark title track (which alternately recalls the tingly pickin’ of Leo Kottke and the pop sensibilities of say, Seal), to the aptly titled “Through A Fog Darkly,” this record rides a vaguely narcotic, senses-spinning vibe that makes for perfect late-night listening, road-trip companionship or heartbreak collaboration. Not quite folk, not quite ambient, not quite pop, More Regret is a mature, soulful, satisfying batch of completely, totally human music. One side note—check out Anders’ website, EricAnders.com, where you’ll find info on a recent, politically-oriented EP he released called Songs For The Wayward Days. There he takes to task the current administration, U.S. policies and the impossibly shuttered mind-state of modern day America. I really, really like this cat—do yourselves a favor and spin yer dial his way. Very sad, very dark, very warm. Jes’ like I like it. Yummy.

Well, folks, we’ve finally reached a point in the time/space continuum where your humble host can stop off for a quick one (while he’s away, hey hey), so we’ll pick this up again soon, when we’ll zoom over to late ’60s Texas to visit a half-crazed, über-talented, damaged rock n’ roll son, and pop into the Amador club in Springfield, Mo., circa 1979 to check up on singer/songwriter Steve Forbert’s original backing band. Be there or be ... well, you know. Until next time—make yer own damn news, ya monkeys.

If you have local music news/gigs/events/CDs you’d like to see mentioned in this column, or you’d just like to find out where you can score your very own Ergo Time Machine©, send replies to: (temporary e-mail) jamescrouch_1@juno.com.