The Rich Millett Archive Project stomps on with its newest release--- Single Cell Organisms!
Single Cell Organisms is a forty minute collage sourced from the tapes from "The Rich Millett Show" (1989-1990) and two sessions of guitar flailing (1990 and 1991). It's all real and all mono. Get it now and forever.
Liner notes (yours truly) and full colour artwork included with the download! Act now, don't delay!
The legendary director Jean-Luc Godard talks about his
philosophies, his career and his new film 'Adieu au Langage', which has
just premièred at the 2014 Cannes Film Festival.
I'm
glad for my songs to be honored like this. But you know, they didn't
get here by themselves. It's been a long road and it's taken a lot of
doing. These songs of mine, they're like mystery stories, the kind that
Shakespeare saw when he was growing up. I think you could trace what I
do back that far. They were on the fringes then, and I think they're on
the fringes now. And they sound like they've been on the hard ground.
I
should mention a few people along the way who brought this about. I
know I should mention John Hammond, great talent scout for Columbia
Records. He signed me to that label when I was nobody. It took a lot of
faith to do that, and he took a lot of ridicule, but he was his own man
and he was courageous. And for that, I'm eternally grateful. The last
person he discovered before me was Aretha Franklin, and before that
Count Basie, Billie Holiday and a whole lot of other artists. All
noncommercial artists.
Trends did not interest John, and I was
very noncommercial but he stayed with me. He believed in my talent and
that's all that mattered. I can't thank him enough for that. Lou Levy
runs Leeds Music, and they published my earliest songs, but I didn't
stay there too long.
Levy himself, he went back a long ways. He
signed me to that company and recorded my songs and I sang them into a
tape recorder. He told me outright, there was no precedent for what I
was doing, that I was either before my time or behind it. And if I
brought him a song like "Stardust," he'd turn it down because it would
be too late.
He
told me that if I was before my time -- and he didn't really know that
for sure -- but if it was happening and if it was true, the public would
usually take three to five years to catch up -- so be prepared. And
that did happen. The trouble was, when the public did catch up I was
already three to five years beyond that, so it kind of complicated it.
But he was encouraging, and he didn't judge me, and I'll always remember
him for that.
Artie Mogull at Witmark Music signed me next to
his company, and he told me to just keep writing songs no matter what,
that I might be on to something. Well, he too stood behind me, and he
could never wait to see what I'd give him next. I didn't even think of
myself as a songwriter before then. I'll always be grateful for him also
for that attitude.
I
also have to mention some of the early artists who recorded my songs
very, very early, without having to be asked. Just something they felt
about them that was right for them. I've got to say thank you to Peter,
Paul and Mary, who I knew all separately before they ever became a
group. I didn't even think of myself as writing songs for others to sing
but it was starting to happen and it couldn't have happened to, or
with, a better group.
They took a song of mine that had been
recorded before that was buried on one of my records and turned it into a
hit song. Not the way I would have done it -- they straightened it out.
But since then hundreds of people have recorded it and I don't think
that would have happened if it wasn't for them. They definitely started
something for me.
Nina
Simone. I used to cross paths with her in New York City in the Village
Gate nightclub. These were the artists I looked up to. She recorded some
of my songs that she [inaudible] to me. She was an overwhelming artist,
piano player and singer. Very strong woman, very outspoken. That she
was recording my songs validated everything that I was about.
Oh,
and can't forget Jimi Hendrix. I actually saw Jimi Hendrix perform when
he was in a band called Jimmy James and the Blue Flames -- something
like that. And Jimi didn't even sing. He was just the guitar player. He
took some small songs of mine that nobody paid any attention to and
pumped them up into the outer limits of the stratosphere and turned them
all into classics. I have to thank Jimi, too. I wish he was here.
Johnny
Cash recorded some of my songs early on, too, up in about '63, when he
was all skin and bones. He traveled long, he traveled hard, but he was a
hero of mine. I heard many of his songs growing up. I knew them better
than I knew my own. "Big River," "I Walk the Line."
"How high's
the water, Mama?" I wrote "It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)" with
that song reverberating inside my head. I still ask, "How high is the
water, mama?" Johnny was an intense character. And he saw that people
were putting me down playing electric music, and he posted letters to
magazines scolding people, telling them to shut up and let him sing. In
Johnny Cash's world -- hardcore Southern drama -- that kind of thing
didn't exist. Nobody told anybody what to sing or what not to sing. They
just didn't do that kind of thing. I'm always going to thank him for
that. Johnny Cash was a giant of a man, the man in black. And I'll
always cherish the friendship we had until the day there is no more
days.
Oh, and I'd be remiss if I didn't mention Joan Baez. She
was the queen of folk music then and now. She took a liking to my songs
and brought me with her to play concerts, where she had crowds of
thousands of people enthralled with her beauty and voice.
People
would say, "What are you doing with that ragtag scrubby little waif?"
And she'd tell everybody in no uncertain terms, "Now you better be quiet
and listen to the songs." We even played a few of them together. Joan
Baez is as tough-minded as they come. Love. And she's a free,
independent spirit. Nobody can tell her what to do if she doesn't want
to do it. I learned a lot of things from her. A woman with devastating
honesty. And for her kind of love and devotion, I could never pay that
back.
These
songs didn't come out of thin air. I didn't just make them up out of
whole cloth. Contrary to what Lou Levy said, there was a precedent. It
all came out of traditional music: traditional folk music, traditional
rock 'n' roll and traditional big-band swing orchestra music.
I
learned lyrics and how to write them from listening to folk songs. And I
played them, and I met other people that played them back when nobody
was doing it. Sang nothing but these folk songs, and they gave me the
code for everything that's fair game, that everything belongs to
everyone.
For three or four years all I listened to were folk
standards. I went to sleep singing folk songs. I sang them everywhere,
clubs, parties, bars, coffeehouses, fields, festivals. And I met other
singers along the way who did the same thing and we just learned songs
from each other. I could learn one song and sing it next in an hour if
I'd heard it just once.
If
you sang "John Henry" as many times as me -- "John Henry was a
steel-driving man / Died with a hammer in his hand / John Henry said a
man ain't nothin' but a man / Before I let that steam drill drive me
down / I'll die with that hammer in my hand."
If you had sung that song as many times as I did, you'd have written "How many roads must a man walk down?" too.
Big
Bill Broonzy had a song called "Key to the Highway." "I've got a key to
the highway / I'm booked and I'm bound to go / Gonna leave here runnin'
because walking is most too slow." I sang that a lot. If you sing that a
lot, you just might write,
Georgia Sam he had a bloody nose Welfare Department they wouldn’t give him no clothes He asked poor Howard where can I go Howard said there’s only one place I know Sam said tell me quick man I got to run Howard just pointed with his gun And said that way down on Highway 61
You'd have written that too if you'd sang "Key to the Highway" as much as me.
"Ain't
no use sit 'n cry / You'll be an angel by and by / Sail away, ladies,
sail away." "I'm sailing away my own true love." "Boots of Spanish
Leather" -- Sheryl Crow just sung that.
"Roll the cotton down, aw,
yeah, roll the cotton down / Ten dollars a day is a white man's pay / A
dollar a day is the black man's pay / Roll the cotton down." If you
sang that song as many times as me, you'd be writing "I ain't gonna work
on Maggie's farm no more," too.
I
sang a lot of "come all you" songs. There's plenty of them. There's way
too many to be counted. "Come along boys and listen to my tale / Tell
you of my trouble on the old Chisholm Trail." Or, "Come all ye good
people, listen while I tell / the fate of Floyd Collins a lad we all
know well / The fate of Floyd Collins, a lad we all know well."
"Come
all ye fair and tender ladies / Take warning how you court your men /
They're like a star on a summer morning / They first appear and then
they're gone again." "If you'll gather 'round, people / A story I will
tell / 'Bout Pretty Boy Floyd, an outlaw / Oklahoma knew him well."
If
you sung all these "come all ye" songs all the time, you'd be writing,
"Come gather 'round people where ever you roam, admit that the waters
around you have grown / Accept that soon you'll be drenched to the bone /
If your time to you is worth saving / And you better start swimming or
you'll sink like a stone / The times they are a-changing."
You'd
have written them too. There's nothing secret about it. You just do it
subliminally and unconsciously, because that's all enough, and that's
all I sang. That was all that was dear to me. They were the only kinds
of songs that made sense.
"When
you go down to Deep Ellum keep your money in your socks / Women in Deep
Ellum put you on the rocks." Sing that song for a while and you just
might come up with, "When you're lost in the rain in Juarez and it's
Easter time too / And your gravity fails and negativity don't pull you
through / Don’t put on any airs / When you’re down on Rue Morgue Avenue /
They got some hungry women there / And they really make a mess outta
you."
All these songs are connected. Don't be fooled. I just
opened up a different door in a different kind of way. It's just
different, saying the same thing. I didn't think it was anything out of
the ordinary.
Last thing I thought
of was who cared about what song I was writing. I was just writing them.
I didn't think I was doing anything different. I thought I was just
extending the line. Maybe a little bit unruly, but I was just
elaborating on situations. Maybe hard to pin down, but so what? A lot of
people are hard to pin down. You've just got to bear it. I didn't
really care what Lieber and Stoller thought of my songs.
They
didn't like 'em, but Doc Pomus did. That was all right that they didn't
like 'em, because I never liked their songs either. "Yakety yak, don't
talk back." "Charlie Brown is a clown," "Baby I'm a hog for you."
Novelty songs. They weren't saying anything serious. Doc's songs, they
were better. "This Magic Moment." "Lonely Avenue." Save the Last Dance
for Me.
Those songs broke my heart. I figured I'd rather have his blessings any day than theirs.
Ahmet
Ertegun didn't think much of my songs, but Sam Phillips did. Ahmet
founded Atlantic Records. He produced some great records: Ray Charles,
Ray Brown, just to name a few.
There were some great records in
there, no question about it. But Sam Phillips, he recorded Elvis and
Jerry Lee, Carl Perkins and Johnny Cash. Radical eyes that shook the
very essence of humanity. Revolution in style and scope. Heavy shape and
color. Radical to the bone. Songs that cut you to the bone. Renegades
in all degrees, doing songs that would never decay, and still resound to
this day. Oh, yeah, I'd rather have Sam Phillips' blessing any day.
Merle
Haggard didn't even think much of my songs. I know he didn't. He didn't
say that to me, but I know [inaudible]. Buck Owens did, and he recorded
some of my early songs. Merle Haggard -- "Mama Tried," "The Bottle Let
Me Down," "I'm a Lonesome Fugitive." I can't imagine Waylon Jennings
singing "The Bottle Let Me Down."
"Together Again"? That's Buck
Owens, and that trumps anything coming out of Bakersfield. Buck Owens
and Merle Haggard? If you have to have somebody's blessing -- you figure
it out.
Oh, yeah. Critics have been giving me a hard time since
Day One. Critics say I can't sing. I croak. Sound like a frog. Why don't
critics say that same thing about Tom Waits? Critics say my voice is
shot. That I have no voice. What don't they say those things about
Leonard Cohen? Why do I get special treatment? Critics say I can't carry
a tune and I talk my way through a song. Really? I've never heard that
said about Lou Reed. Why does he get to go scot-free?
What
have I done to deserve this special attention? No vocal range? When's
the last time you heard Dr. John? Why don't you say that about him? Slur
my words, got no diction. Have you people ever listened to Charley
Patton or Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters. Talk about slurred words and no
diction. [Inaudible] doesn't even matter.
"Why me, Lord?" I would say that to myself.
Critics
say I mangle my melodies, render my songs unrecognizable. Oh, really?
Let me tell you something. I was at a boxing match a few years ago
seeing Floyd Mayweather fight a Puerto Rican guy. And the Puerto Rican
national anthem, somebody sang it and it was beautiful. It was heartfelt
and it was moving.
After
that it was time for our national anthem. And a very popular
soul-singing sister was chosen to sing. She sang every note -- that
exists, and some that don't exist. Talk about mangling a melody. You
take a one-syllable word and make it last for 15 minutes? She was doing
vocal gymnastics like she was on a trapeze act. But to me it was not
funny.
Where were the critics? Mangling lyrics? Mangling a
melody? Mangling a treasured song? No, I get the blame. But I don't
really think I do that. I just think critics say I do.
Sam Cooke
said this when told he had a beautiful voice: He said, "Well that's very
kind of you, but voices ought not to be measured by how pretty they
are. Instead they matter only if they convince you that they are telling
the truth." Think about that the next time you [inaudible].
Times
always change. They really do. And you have to always be ready for
something that's coming along and you never expected it. Way back when, I
was in Nashville making some records and I read this article, a Tom T.
Hall interview. Tom T. Hall, he was bitching about some kind of new
song, and he couldn't understand what these new kinds of songs that were
coming in were about.
Now Tom, he was one of the most preeminent
songwriters of the time in Nashville. A lot of people were recording
his songs and he himself even did it. But he was all in a fuss about
James Taylor, a song James had called "Country Road." Tom was going off
in this interview -- "But James don't say nothing about a country road.
He's just says how you can feel it on the country road. I don't
understand that."
Now some might say Tom is a great songwriter.
I'm not going to doubt that. At the time he was doing this interview I
was actually listening to a song of his on the radio.
It was
called "I Love." I was listening to it in a recording studio, and he was
talking about all the things he loves, an everyman kind of song, trying
to connect with people. Trying to make you think that he's just like
you and you're just like him. We all love the same things, and we're all
in this together. Tom loves little baby ducks, slow-moving trains and
rain. He loves old pickup trucks and little country streams. Sleeping
without dreams. Bourbon in a glass. Coffee in a cup. Tomatoes on the
vine, and onions.
Now
listen, I'm not ever going to disparage another songwriter. I'm not
going to do that. I'm not saying it's a bad song. I'm just saying it
might be a little overcooked. But, you know, it was in the top 10
anyway. Tom and a few other writers had the whole Nashville scene sewed
up in a box. If you wanted to record a song and get it in the top 10 you
had to go to them, and Tom was one of the top guys. They were all very
comfortable, doing their thing.
This was about the time that
Willie Nelson picked up and moved to Texas. About the same time. He's
still in Texas. Everything was very copacetic. Everything was all right
until -- until -- Kristofferson came to town. Oh, they ain't seen
anybody like him. He came into town like a wildcat, flew his helicopter
into Johnny Cash's backyard like a typical songwriter. And he went for
the throat. "Sunday Morning Coming Down."
Well, I woke up Sunday morning With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad So I had one more for dessert Then I fumbled through my closet Found my cleanest dirty shirt Then I washed my face and combed my hair And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
You
can look at Nashville pre-Kris and post-Kris, because he changed
everything. That one song ruined Tom T. Hall's poker parties. It might
have sent him to the crazy house. God forbid he ever heard any of my
songs.
You walk into the room With your pencil in your hand You see somebody naked You say, “Who is that man?” You try so hard But you don’t understand Just what you're gonna say When you get home You know something is happening here But you don’t know what it is Do you, Mister Jones?
If
"Sunday Morning Coming Down" rattled Tom's cage, sent him into the
looney bin, my song surely would have made him blow his brains out,
right there in the minivan. Hopefully he didn't hear it.
I just
released an album of standards, all the songs usually done by Michael
Buble, Harry Connick Jr., maybe Brian Wilson's done a couple, Linda
Ronstadt done 'em. But the reviews of their records are different than
the reviews of my record.
In their reviews no one says anything.
In my reviews, [inaudible] they've got to look under every stone when it
comes to me. They've got to mention all the songwriters' names. Well
that's OK with me. After all, they're great songwriters and these are
standards. I've seen the reviews come in, and they'll mention all the
songwriters in half the review, as if everybody knows them. Nobody's
heard of them, not in this time, anyway. Buddy Kaye, Cy Coleman, Carolyn
Leigh, to name a few.
But,
you know, I'm glad they mention their names, and you know what? I'm
glad they got their names in the press. It might have taken some time to
do it, but they're finally there. I can only wonder why it took so
long. My only regret is that they're not here to see it.
Traditional
rock 'n' roll, we're talking about that. It's all about rhythm. Johnny
Cash said it best: "Get rhythm. Get rhythm when you get the blues." Very
few rock 'n' roll bands today play with rhythm. They don't know what it
is. Rock 'n' roll is a combination of blues, and it's a strange thing
made up of two parts. A lot of people don't know this, but the blues,
which is an American music, is not what you think it is. It's a
combination of Arabic violins and Strauss waltzes working it out. But
it's true.
The other half of rock 'n' roll has got to be
hillbilly. And that's a derogatory term, but it ought not to be. That's a
term that includes the Delmore Bros., Stanley Bros., Roscoe Holcomb,
Clarence Ashley ... groups like that. Moonshiners gone berserk. Fast
cars on dirt roads. That's the kind of combination that makes up rock
'n' roll, and it can't be cooked up in a science laboratory or a
studio.
You have to have the right kind of rhythm to play this
kind of music. If you can't hardly play the blues, how do you
[inaudible] those other two kinds of music in there? You can fake it,
but you can't really do it.
Critics have made a career out of
accusing me of having a career of confounding expectations. Really?
Because that's all I do. That's how I think about it. Confounding
expectations.
"What do you do for a living, man?"
"Oh, I confound expectations."
You're
going to get a job, the man says, "What do you do?" "Oh, confound
expectations.: And the man says, "Well, we already have that spot
filled. Call us back. Or don't call us, we'll call you." Confounding
expectations. What does that mean? 'Why me, Lord? I'd confound them, but
I don't know how to do it.'
The Blackwood Bros. have been
talking to me about making a record together. That might confound
expectations, but it shouldn't. Of course it would be a gospel album. I
don't think it would be anything out of the ordinary for me. Not a bit.
One of the songs I'm thinking about singing is "Stand By Me" by the
Blackwood Brothers. Not "Stand By Me" the pop song. No. The real "Stand
By Me."
The real one goes like this: When the storm of
life is raging / Stand by me / When the storm of life is raging / Stand
by me / When the world is tossing me / Like a ship upon the sea / Thou
who rulest wind and water / Stand by me In the midst of
tribulation / Stand by me / In the midst of tribulation / Stand by me /
When the hosts of hell assail / And my strength begins to fail / Thou
who never lost a battle / Stand by me In the midst of
faults and failures / Stand by me / In the midst of faults and failures /
Stand by me / When I do the best I can / And my friends don't
understand / Thou who knowest all about me / Stand by me
That's
the song. I like it better than the pop song. If I record one by that
name, that's going to be the one. I'm also thinking of recording a song,
not on that album, though: "Oh Lord, Please Don't Let Me Be
Misunderstood."
Anyway, why me, Lord. What did I do?
Anyway,
I'm proud to be here tonight for MusiCares. I'm honored to have all
these artists singing my songs. There's nothing like that. Great
artists. [applause, inaudible]. They're all singing the truth, and you
can hear it in their voices.
I'm proud to be here tonight for
MusiCares. I think a lot of this organization. They've helped many
people. Many musicians who have contributed a lot to our culture. I'd
like to personally thank them for what they did for a friend of mine,
Billy Lee Riley. A friend of mine who they helped for six years when he
was down and couldn't work. Billy was a son of rock 'n' roll, obviously.
He
was a true original. He did it all: He played, he sang, he wrote. He
would have been a bigger star but Jerry Lee came along. And you know
what happens when someone like that comes along. You just don't stand a
chance.
So
Billy became what is known in the industry -- a condescending term, by
the way -- as a one-hit wonder. But sometimes, just sometimes, once in a
while, a one-hit wonder can make a more powerful impact than a
recording star who's got 20 or 30 hits behind him. And Billy's hit song
was called "Red Hot," and it was red hot. It could blast you out of your skull and make you feel happy about it. Change your life.
He
did it with style and grace. You won't find him in the Rock and Roll
Hall of Fame. He's not there. Metallica is. Abba is. Mamas and the Papas
-- I know they're in there. Jefferson Airplane, Alice Cooper, Steely
Dan -- I've got nothing against them. Soft rock, hard rock, psychedelic
pop. I got nothing against any of that stuff, but after all, it is
called the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Billy Lee Riley is not there.
Yet.
I'd
see him a couple times a year and we'd always spent time together and
he was on a rockabilly festival nostalgia circuit, and we'd cross paths
now and again. We'd always spend time together. He was a hero of mine.
I'd heard "Red Hot." I must have been only 15 or 16 when I did and it's
impressed me to this day.
I never grow tired of listening to it.
Never got tired of watching Billy Lee perform, either. We spent time
together just talking and playing into the night. He was a deep,
truthful man. He wasn't bitter or nostalgic. He just accepted it. He
knew where he had come from and he was content with who he was.
And
then one day he got sick. And like my friend John Mellencamp would sing
-- because John sang some truth today -- one day you get sick and you
don't get better. That's from a song of his called "Life is Short Even
on Its Longest Days." It's one of the better songs of the last few
years, actually. I ain't lying.
And
I ain't lying when I tell you that MusiCares paid for my friend's
doctor bills, and helped him to get spending money. They were able to at
least make his life comfortable, tolerable to the end. That is
something that can't be repaid. Any organization that would do that
would have to have my blessing.
I'm going to get out of here now.
I'm going to put an egg in my shoe and beat it. I probably left out a
lot of people and said too much about some. But that's OK. Like the
spiritual song, 'I'm still just crossing over Jordan too.' Let's hope we
meet again. Sometime. And we will, if, like Hank Williams said, "the
good Lord willing and the creek don't rise."
