Along with being an active member of Flow Tribe and the New Orleans scene, New Orleans-based Evan Oberla, a Jazz Studies University graduate, has Recorded at the Marigny studios in New Orleans to produce his latest release Art 4 All.
Its October in New Orleans as I am writing this review, and my favorite fall activity is to drive with the windows down, get some cool fall air, and listen to new music driving around Mid-City and Hollygrove. So, grab yourself a drink, snack, smoke and Saints coozy, and ride with me as we trip out on this album.
The opening track “Art 4 All” brings me back to those golden days of the past at the Maple Leaf bar, headfirst into a book of gonzo journalism, and enjoying the Crescent City sounds of organ funk and progressive indie rock. Setting the tone for the rest of my experience, nostalgic and futuristic notions emanate with strength in all the instruments played. The recording is pleasing to the senses by offering an audio charcuterie of warmth and contemporary production. As I approach the stoplight by Canal and Carrolton, the next track on our voyage is “Connected”, a swinging downtrodden message of life, soul, and universe. It’s connected to a root deep seeded in trials and tribulations, a child-like inner intonation, and the beauty of living in the moment. A crisp nostalgic rhodes piano & swaying summer guitar sound washes over me as I am in an utter trance to hear more. Driving down on my way to Liuzza’s for a cigarette and a beer, the third track “Only” begins to play.
This song has the production and soothing soulful foundations of a Stevie Wonder-type Motown classic. A harmonious brass section and engaging rhythmic composition are alive in this upbeat song. Cinematic visualizations come to mind upon listening; a soundtrack to a street theater in the beginning, the middle transitioning into a ceremonious New Orleans dance that overflows into the CBD. As my drive continues, the sun is just right upon my face, a slight breeze brings all the joyous smells of restaurants and the daily business grind that is Poydras Street. Time to turn up the stereo a bit louder so the commuters can jam with me as they enjoy their lunch breaks nearby.
Next into our journey is the track “What We Needed”, a compelling piano-driven narrative to which the lyrics sing “We lucked out we lost ourselves”. Orchestral cymbal splashes and timpani-esque percussion drive the mood of this song, a call out for feeling and reconciliation.
I park my car down St. Charles near Please You restaurant, move the album to my iPhone and put in my ear buds. Time to listen to the next song from Evan’s album titled, “Movin on”. While enjoying a gyro and a big shot cola, I stare into the Lower Garden District scenery while being serenaded by this song’s 70’s groove. A musical landscape of “All 4 Love” is present throughout my mind. Incredible vocal harmonies lather in rich warmth audio perfection. It is a suitable experience for vinyl audio consumption if I ever heard. I get into my car and head back up towards the Marigny. Next up on the album, and roaring on my car stereo, is the song “Pivotal”, which brings that electro drum swank and swagger feel into the center of the singer/songwriter genre and lyrical direction that I have come to love of Evan Oberla.
“Pineapple Juice“ brings us to the latter half of Art 4 All. Summer-laden oracles of collective sounds, whilst on a island or inland, flood me ears. Picture yourself at a Tiki Bar, the music as the soundtrack, the conversation and moment as your own, guiding into nirvana as the midnight oil burns. Finally, I arrive at my destination, Webb’s Bywater Music. Time to park and grab some guitar strings, a cigar, and hang with friends; a perfect end to an engaging vibe from this album at its core.
Art 4 All brings the funk and sophistication, all the while keeping a voice of personal exploration and celebration. The sounds of New Orleans reverberate but also become the calming waves unto a shore of new development. The album is available on the band’s BandCamp page, and I highly encourage those who enjoy layered music to give it a try. As in the essence of the band’s album, they sing “…share your gift with the world”. Thank you for being my passenger on this audio journey through New Orleans. For neworleansmusicians.com I am Ryan McKern, see you soon Mon Ami!
The folds of oak leave no room for compromise. The tree, along with every fiber of its being, is a physical manifestation of intention. It grows with strength reaching down to its core and provides for those around it. For the amount of time it took to become all that it is, you’d never know the challenges it faced. Nor would you fathom its path was ever in doubt. From the time he was a small child, Alfred Banks was intent on being an orator. His words cleared paths fraught with challenges of their own. The youngest of three, he derived inspiration from both the passions and pitfalls of his older siblings. Scarface’s album, The Diary, brings him back to times spent riding around in his brother James’ big blue Lincoln. This is where his introduction to freestyling occurred. And efforts into perfecting his penmanship harken memories of his oldest brother, Orlandis. The one-on-one moments spent with people he looked up to are ones he will forever cherish. From both, he experienced introductions to rappers like Tupac Shakur and Busta Rhymes. Inside the house, their mother played the gospel music of artists like John P Kee and Hezekiah Walker. These influences were the seeds from which Alfred’s career would grow.
With both brothers striking out on their own, a young Alfred would become an only child for ten years. Under the watchful eye of his mother, he was not permitted to run the streets at will. He spent the bulk of his time inside, in his own mind, playing out the possibilities a life in entertainment might hold. Memorizing James Brown moves or dressing up like Will Smith and Martin Laurence in Bad Boys would be the activities that filled his days. As time went on, he could see himself alongside Redman in the I’ll Be That video. He envisioned an existence keeping lyrical pace with Busta Rhymes in the Gimme Some More video. And it was easy to image his place in Jay-Z’s Hard Knock Life video. Watching Mtv and BET, emulating, writing; he was the star of the show in his mind.
At some point his oldest brother Orlandis briefly returned from the Marines. Alfred recalls one of few family reunions he experienced as a child on the lakefront of Lake Pontchartrain. “This had to be like, 2000. He had a Mazda 626, a green one. I remember that. And he had this big ass binder of CDs, back when that was the thing to have. And I remember him playing instrumentals in the car, those single CDs that they used to have, the record, the censored version, and the instrumental. So, he had a bunch of those and he would just put the CD in and just play instrumentals. We’re on the lake and I remember I’m nine years old. James is freestyling, Orlandis is rapping, and I’m freestyling. And everybody is just so impressed with me because I’m rapping at nine years old.” Alfred also associated this craft with a certain degree of respect. He’d recognized this on an outing with Orlandis to a recording studio once. He observed the resulting camaraderie and rappers’ abilities to move crowds as a politician or pastor might possess. Though the next few years would see him experimenting with basketball and wrestling, lyricism would never leave his mind. He was good at it. He didn’t care much for all the rules of basketball. And he tried his hand in two backyard wrestling matches, knocking himself out. He longed to impress his brothers and rapping held the key.
At fourteen, his focus was final. He heard Food & Liquor by Lupe Fiasco and he knew he was going to be a rapper. With no way to make beats of his own, consulting his brother Orlandis gave him the idea to draw from the CDs in his house. A metamorphosis began to occur here in that, where once he was writing rhymes to impress his family, now he was writing rhymes to battle the rappers on these CDs. The question of IF had vanished and an imaginative boy was becoming more sure and more serious, measuring himself up to the likes of Marshal Mathers.
Like many with a small stature, Alfred was teased a lot in school. Moving several times meant new schools and seemingly more foes than friends. These developing verbal skills would enable him to shoot back at schoolyard taunts. At some point Alfred remembers feeling, “different”. He recalls trying to explain this to his mother. He was unaware of the existence of conditions like bipolar or depression at that time. He was unsure why he sometimes felt like he wanted to die. His mother would do her part to get him help. But with him, as in the past, his pen would surely escort him through these times. Through this, another facet of his lyrical style would develop, emotional vulnerability. This is one I believe to be the most valuable, one that elevated his repertoire and made him salient. Because the industry, let alone his atmosphere, was wholly intolerant of such a characteristic in MCs. The court of public popularity spared little reprieve for conscious rap, a style of lyricism denoted by introspective thought. The emotional and intellectual content sought to reveal another dimension of an MC’s ethos outside of what had become a redundant discussion of material wealth, violence, and machismo. MCs like Common, Black Thought, and Talib Kweli enjoyed some commercial success. Conscious collectives like the Lyricist Lounge were inching up the bottom of Billboard. But these instances were anomalies back then.
For Alfred to choose a path less travelled was a brave step in my opinion, and an unlikely one. We develop socially in the presence of others. Judgement is abundant, weighing heavily on youth. The two musical factions seldom comingled. One lyrical style had become the media darling. Still, he chose the other. And I suspect it was because it mattered that much to him. His deep respect for the art implored him to fill his notebooks with matters that hit close to home. Delving into his catalog, fans will find bits of his personal trials scattered throughout. One example was preceded by an eight-to-ten-year span where he did not hear from his oldest brother Orlandis. He later found out it was due to schizophrenia, which ultimately resulted in Orlandis’ death. Alfred’s album, Beautiful, released in 2017, was a concept album conceived on the car ride leaving that funeral where he develops schizophrenia and experiences the illness firsthand. Fights at school, alcoholism and altercations at home, and relationships plagued by turmoil all were revisited with his pen. He wasn’t sure how to put the experiences into words. So, he wrote about the feelings emerging from those experiences.
Personal revelations like these on record nurture humanity and champion the importance of discussing the traumatic experience over a braggart’s tale. In this, Alfred has created value through connections to his fans. Over time, he’s seen them drive from states away to attend his concerts, bringing gifts and stories of how his works have affected them. In our talks, he expressed his unwavering appreciation for these moments. He was also careful to point out the distinction between real life interactions like these and vanity metrics on streaming and social media. But he can’t help but acknowledge the hindrance delivered to him by a less-prevalent sect of rap music in a town with no clear organization or stronghold on the industry. Alfred has been in active pursuit of his rap career for fifteen years. During that time, he’s toured from the west coast to Europe, he’s charted on iTunes and Billboard. His songs have been featured in movies and television shows. He was even nominated for a Grammy. He’s ghostwritten for some of the most legendary artists in New Orleans. He’s shared stages and received praises from big names in the industry. But still the efforts extended have often times fallen short of the financial reward.
He’s lived through the highs and lows that come with being an entertainer. As Alfred explained, “I had to grind tooth and nail to make the name that I have. Lots of shows in New Orleans being disappointed where it’s like, fifteen people show up. You’ve been promoting for a month and a half, two months, and then like thirty people come out. But then the next day you perform at Voodoo Fest, opening for Kendrick Lamar.” He explained further, “You’ll be big one moment and then be reminded how big you aren’t literally the next day. Like, performing at Bayou Boogaloo and then the next day clocking in at my day job; all these different struggles that I’ve had to go through. Or, having to run in a room and having to out-rap everybody in a room. In every room I’m in, I’m having to prove myself. Every space I’m in I have to show everyone ‘cause I’m always the least known person in every room I’m in.”
The fickle nature of success can be just as fickle as the spectators that gather to see what he brings. Recently, he’s experienced a refreshing response from his alliance with twice Grammy nominated musician Albert Allenback, currently of Tank and the Bangas, in a project known as SaxKixAve. To the equation, Albert presents as a multi-instrumentalist both inspiring and challenging Alfred. The two have gone viral several times over and have made appearances at The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, the French Quarter Festival, and in a Popeyes commercial. The lyrical style of Alfred’s solo career was more embodied by heavy, personal content. For putting all those all those hardships to paper, he didn’t catch the gleam of commercial success for the first eight years, about the time he was named the face of Volkswagen in their Polo/Beats by Dre Commercial Campaign. And it was just two years ago was when he felt like he had finally created a name for himself. In contrast, SaxKixAve comes along and within three years is performing in Aspen, Colorado at the X-Games. And lighthearted songs, like a recent one about hashbrowns is rapidly enjoying great success. Does that bother him? Alfred offers this resolve, “Here’s the deal. With SaxKixAve, after we went viral man, we’ve been doing shows across the U.S. People are coming out, dude. Like, people are buying tickets to see us. They’ve never seen us before. They’ve only seen us on the internet. And we don’t even have a hit record or nothing. We have songs, two songs specifically, that have kinda done well. But we don’t have a hit. And, so like, these people are taking a chance. And what we’re finding is, they like the deeper stuff more than Hashbrowns.”
In retrospect, the lyrical levity and dry-humored oddity of their videos on social media has simply been what’s sparked initial interest. While the musicality and verbal depth is what cemented their appeal in the minds of the public. At no time, though, has Alfred bowed to the communal fixation on nonsensical antics. For him, this is a point of pride. And rightfully so. We’ve all rolled our eyes at the extent to which people are willing to go to get those likes and shares. Aside from being ridiculous, content like this is not born out of the genuine creative value of an artist. It is the result of efforts spent pandering to the faceless consensus. Alfred Banks exists devoid of vanity or falsehood. And, by all means should he be held as a wellspring of creative dignity. His spirit is the very embodiment of the independent New Orleans musician.
If you head up the Mississippi River from New Orleans roughly forty miles, you’ll find yourself in Garyville, Louisiana. Here, the soundscape swirling in the waters is what makes them muddy. French influences of La-La and Zydeco meld with traditional country and other roots music. Like many, guitarist Johnny Lagrange holds fast to his origins in these genres. As a child, his first experience was seeing live music at a fair with his older cousins. Where chatter amongst the crowd was spoken in French, and Charles Sonier played the fiddle on stage.
At home were two older sisters and an older brother with tastes of their own to fill his ears. He gravitated toward his sisters’ pop music of the day like Madonna and Tears For Fears more so than the rap music to which his brother listened. Radio delivered his appreciation for musicianship with artists like Buddy Guy, Eric Clapton, and Stevie Ray Vaughn. A six-year-old boy would many times attempt to play these tunes on his little plastic guitar. Though he stood worlds away from creating the music he heard, he loved giving rise to sound. His foundation was already filled with many elements. As Johnny put it, “But then, you get your first blue jean jacket. And you get turned on to Testament and Iron Maiden. These guitarists are amazing!” The flood gates were instantly breached. Any membrane that disjoined traditional genres from the new style of rock had been permeated by the likes of Steve Vai and Yngwie Malmsteen.
Suddenly, the divergent interests of his original footing and heavy metal ruled radically different. Though they seemed to occupy equal parts in his mind at the time, it was the guitar that swayed him. Heavy metal, and thrash music for that matter, explored the possibilities of sound with guitar. Johnny grew fond of doing the same. As we spoke about this time in his life, I asked about his first “real” guitar. He smiled and pointed to one that sat on a stand behind me. He was fourteen years old when it came into his life. It would become his muse for the next few years and lead him to form a band called Seveth. Being underage, his band mates would sneak him in the back door of a bar out in Laplace just so he could perform, exiting the same way he came. Covers of Poison, Whitesnake, and Warrant, and a few of his own originals escorted him into maturity. But in all honesty, he was just a kid having fun. His interests would waver at times and hot rods did steal him away briefly.
Until one night when a friend directed him toward an open mic session at a local bar. Arriving with no set material or plan in place, he simply got up on stage alone and played every scale, every chord, and every shredder piece he knew. He will admit the performance was less than impactful. Being an unknown, the house band didn’t want to back him up. But it did grab the attention of their drummer. The two would go on to form the band Headrush. Johnny, in his twenties by this time, had picked up a drug habit along the way. And this became the fire that fueled a songwriting frenzy between them. In three months’ time, they wrote approximately ten hours-worth of originals. This pace and his lifestyle were both unsustainable though. In time, the consequences began to overshadow the benefits. He became a full-blown alcoholic and drug addict. No one wanted to play with him, and his life became consumed by his vices. He set down the guitar to get his life back in order and checked himself into a rehab facility.
During his path to sobriety, his wife brought him an acoustic guitar once owner by her father. For the longest time, he hadn’t even laid eyes on a guitar. He did still have a Peavy, somewhere, in a closet with no amp. But sobriety created a void, as it does in many, when a life in pursuit of intoxication no longer existed. The arrival of many introspective thoughts and questions filled him with a desire to express himself. The acoustic guitar was preceded by countless pages in a notebook of these questions, of lyrics in their most rudimentary form. Whether he realized it or not, he had been charged with finding himself on paper, in isolation. A time in his life where he felt as though he possessed direction or meaning of any sort had left him long ago. Things began to come together for him as he lifted those thoughts from paper and put them to melody using that that acoustic. The Bald Dog Project was born and a memento from his inner turmoil became known as the Begging for Change album. Johnny recalls, “Probably 95% of all Bald Dog Project songs are personal. All of the lyrics on the first two albums, that one (Begging for Change) and the (following) one with the full band… every one of those lyrics are poems, just pissed off and my healing so to speak, that I was just writing down. And then I took it and formatted it into songs. So, a lot of it is some real personal shit. When I was in rehab, that’s when I was healing, making amends to myself.”
During the early stages of Headrush, before the band had a name, his suggestion was that they call the band Bald Dog. But the other members objected. They resolved to put names in a hat. Guess which name was picked? Bald Dog! Yet they still protested, and the name Bald Dog was thrown out. Now that it was just him, that name would finally come to be. Johnny laughed as he explained, “Ain’t nobody but me. So, I have no fucking arguments. I’m naming this mother fucker Bald Dog! And just to piss them off, it’s going to be The Bald Dog Project. It’s like, how you gonna have a project with just one guy?”
The appeal of The Bald Dog Project lied within a unique sound facilitated by a deficit. Johnny couldn’t sing in a tone that was appropriate for acoustic music. It always came out with a definitively heavy metal tone. The mood set by his lyrics dealt with heavy emotions. And he had always been a fan of the metal genre. A friend by the name of John Walden, hearing the merit in this combination, gave words of encouragement. Walden, a drummer and bassist, invited Johnny to come open for his band at a gig. Alone again and having not been on stage in over ten years, a nervous Johnny took the offer. He recalls it as a terrible performance. But Walden still felt as though Johnny had something. He reassured him, and recommended he gather a drummer, a bassist, and a second guitarist. Johnny moved quickly, reaching out to Tommy Cox (Konstricted, Nothing Sacred) to join with an acoustic and he agreed. The two, joined by bassist Glenn “Chookie” Grady, began playing shows without a drummer. Finding their sound and gaining momentum, John Walden soon joined in on drums.
I interviewed Kirk Windstein once and he explained his own version of what he considered to be heavy. As Kirk clarified, “To me heavy is emotion. To me one of the heaviest Black Sabbath songs is Solitude. It’s just a two chord with a flute. Sonically, it’s not heavy at all. It’s a clean guitar, and you know, a flute. To me, heavy is not just volume, distortion, whatever. It’s emotion.” Explorations and reparations to make oneself whole again were the founding sentiments of The Bald Dog Project. In my opinion this would near top the list of weighted thoughts. Deeper into this vein, Johnny has begun pursuing a second concept by the name Blackwall Symphony. The songs currently being recorded enlist heavy metal components and fuse them with orchestral pieces. Choir, violins, horns and flutes all accentuate distorted, thrashing electric guitars. He said they have eight of the planned twelve songs down. And when they’re all complete, he will reveal them in a live performance. I look forward to feeling my pulse quicken as this spectacle thickens into a rich audio experience orchestrated by Louisiana’s own, Johnny Lagrange!
Often times musicians have a way of letting emotion be the divining rod. And the good ones manage this at no expense to their goals. Sean Riley wasn’t always like this. Many miles and many crowds have since subdued the fifteen-year-old in him that was a bit on the shy side. Back then, he kept playing and practice to himself, emerging occasionally to strum a few chords of Smoke on the Water or Layla for friends. Words of encouragement, coupled with desires to be like what he heard, are what kept him going.
He knew what the end result was supposed to sound like. Saratoga Performing Arts Center was located in his hometown, and he’d seen acts like The Allman Brothers, The Grateful Dead, and Steely Dan. He also listened to Roy Orbison, Beach Boys, and Waylon Jennings when his parents played those records. And he knew where the sound came from. His aunt gifted him an old Stella parlor guitar when he was a child. He would often marvel at it where it hung on the wall in the living room. Connecting the dots between those stage shows and this, until now, wall art meant pulling it down and seeing how it felt. Sean recalls, “I didn’t know how to tune it. We didn’t have those tuners you plug in back then. It was tuned to a piano. And I didn’t have anything. So, I had to learn from… I bought one of those what looks like an old harmonica that’s got a little tube. You blow the E and I would tune it. That’s when I got my first lesson. I was like, I gotta learn how to tune the damn thing. But when I first picked it up, I just loved the feel of it.”
I found that, throughout our discussion, he would speak frequently about taking lessons. Although he did take formal lessons for a short period of time, there were a myriad of things that he referred to generically as lessons. This experience was one. And you’ll hear about more later. I specify this because within him, as should be any aspiring musician out there, lived the drive to master the art. Existing in this mindset means that lessons come from all areas in life. This perspective inevitably leads one to greatness. His dedication did not go unnoticed. After spending countless hours with that Stella, his father agreed to buy him an electric guitar. Formal lessons were a condition of this gift.
From a wall amongst many, this self-described late bloomer grabbed a ‘73 SG at an old guitar shop because he liked the way the thing looked. But the esthetics began to shift focus within him and it may not have been noticeable at first. As many children do, he listened to most genres back then. From punk to hip hop, a blues/rock spoke to him louder that the rest. Wherever this voice came from, it was naked and undecorated. He didn’t want to be famous. He didn’t want to be rich. He wanted to play that guitar on stage. And he wanted to do it right. So, whenever the voice spoke, he listened.
The rudiments were found in a few places; tab books, instructional DVD’s, and “The Guitar Grimoire: A Compendium of Formulas for Guitar Scales and Modes”. What he learned would be put to the test whenever a friend could come over and play along. He laughed when he remembered how amateur they all were but maintains he will never forget that initial feeling. Loosely associated jam bands would form and dissipate. Whenever he encountered those with less drive or interest, he would simply revert to playing in his room. As he got older, he was able to get more of those lessons going to local pubs to see shows. Watching the guitarists pick things out and hearing how it sounded taught him a lot. College became a good place for meeting musicians and getting more of these lessons too. He explained a time at college when he played for someone that he felt was better than him. The guy said, “you’re good, but you’d be better if you learned theory”. That one statement impacted him, compelling him to seek formal lessons once again.
From here, advancement took him from playing in a basement with roommates to bars and frat parties. He teamed up with guys from the college jazz band, playing what the Allman Brothers covered. Elmore James and Junior Wells became his expression of a strong love of the blues. Lessons still came from local pubs. He would see a band playing and think to himself, man we can do that. But the lack of ambition from other members always seemed to stifle growth. Taking a semester break and travelling to Europe would definitively end the college band days. It would be the genesis for him to strike out on his own in new surroundings.From there, he returned for a work study program in New York City. It was there that he would remain for the next fifteen years.
It was the early 2000’s and the Black Keys had just come out. Sean played anywhere and everywhere, bringing with him that stripped down blues rock style that he loved. His background in graphic design gave him something to fall back on during leaner times. A bottleneck in music commerce had become noticeable. Rates were on the rise and some of the larger venues were closing down in Manhattan. But across the river in Williamsburg, things were booming. So, he would take the L Train to a patch of small, underground places and DIY house shows that garnered a good crowd and sometimes hosted small label reps. He would play rhythm guitar in funk bands, sound off in indie rock bands, and cater to the booking agents that loved the blues. This was the mix of the day. And there was a decent folk music following at places like Jalopy Theater in Red Hook, a southwest Brooklyn town with a diverse, laid-back community.
So, how did Sean come to live all the way down in New Orleans? The Jazz Fest sold him on the place. He travelled down for the event once or twice before and was captivated by the music, the food, and the night life. One too many cold nights up north were enough for he and his wife to make the move ten years ago. He’s certain his career has benefitted from this and cites the city as inspiration for his writing. He began by busking on Royal Street and, after meeting a few people, was able to get a gig on Frenchman Street. He sees the main contrast between New York City and New Orleans being the communal aspect. Things seemed clicky up north. He’s had to remain versatile while here, playing from uptown to the Bywater and playing with many different people. His band, Sean Riley and the Water, was actually named for this. The water represents the constant flow of players passing through the band.
He does have a couple of musicians with whom he plays often, bassist Dean Zucchero and drummer Mike Barras. Sean explained, “Those guys I’ve been playing with a lot throughout the years. So, I would road test the songs with them. That was one tight unit that I felt comfortable with.” And when it came time to record his new album, Stone Cold Hands, he played with those guys and invited a slew of Louisiana locals to contribute. This ten-track body of work has charted in many places, including Billboard, and features Bruce “Sunpie” Barnes, Waylon Thibodeau, Phil Breen, Tiffany Pollack, Megan Harris Brunious and Whitney Alouisious. It is his sophomore effort, released on Dean Zucchero’s label Pugnaceous Records and recorded at RiverShack Studios, and is preceded by one 7 song EP, Biting Through, released in late 2019 under name Old Riley and the Water.
In Lafayette during the late 90’s and early 2000’s, the alt-rock scene was bubbling. It had somehow cross-pollinated with the skater community, lending support to local band Santeria who were the bees bringing the buzz. The moody, melodic five-piece used Lafayette as a launchpad, going on to trapse the continental U.S. One member would spread this creative wave further into movies, television, and authorship. Dege Legg was a multi-instrumentalist, author, artist, pedagogue, and observer of raw life that reported his findings through emotional serenades, verses, and visual artistry. His impact was deeply felt by many across multiple generations; myself included. The likes of which will never be seen again.
I first saw Brother Dege in Baton Rouge in 2008. His creativity resonated with me, then and now. And his kindness and depth would help me out of the gutter many a time. To have been able to call him a friend is something that blessed me more than anyone will ever know. So, it is bittersweet that I review his new and final album. Light the fire and gather around, journey with me into the wilderness of souls and audio landscapes that is “Aurora”.
“Like the delta slide guitar stinging like a scorpion tail, the roar of the cicadas over a bayou dream. Like a cab ride out of purgatory, a psychedelic philosophy of hitchhikers’ dreams.”
We cross this bridge together, with Aurora’s opening self-titled song. With a warm, reverb-soaked slide guitar, Dege conjures up images of Louisiana swamps and deserted highways. Tribal, crisp serenity envelopes the listener in time, as syncopated strums are positioned around the resonating slide. They gradually increase their presence, and the full band joins lulling us all away to the next musical destination.
I first heard track two, “Where the Black Flowers Grow”, on Brother Dege’s WWOZ live-in-studio performance late last year. I found it to be a melancholy and beautifully sorrow-ridden song of joy and heartbreak. I got to talk with Dege about the manifestation of this song, and was really impressed how much was involved. The chorus has a powerful hook that delivers a sonic punch of chord progression, picking, and building, leading you from the darkness into the clearing of self-exploration.
“Climbing Ivy (Sleep Beside You)” is the third track on Aurora. Immediately, we are given a wild west feeling accompanied by a southern groove-styled percussion and a rich, smooth grand piano. Dege is in full swing here, showcasing his storyteller vibe with a line like “sleep beside you till the morning takes our tears away”. Journeyman vocals and open-tuning chord progression pair beautifully in this.
The next song is titled “A Man Needs a Mommy”. Dege Legg always had this uncanny ability to show his Acadiana roots and love for music of all genres, all the while with a tint of darkness among the softness of touch. I can’t help but wonder if this song drew from his own experiences growing up, or perhaps from his experiences as a father. One thing that is present here is the fight to pick up when you’re down.
More than halfway through the journey of Aurora, we stoke the fire and raise our glasses. Because the next song, “Turn of the Screw”, kicks the tempo up and diverts the mood with a southern Cajun-rock ensemble of working-class lyrics. Motivational messages front as listeners are harkened to the sound of a south Louisiana fiddle.
“Ouroboros” gives us a hauntingly beautiful Celtic-influenced fiddle melody, followed by the Brother Dege Brethren full band sound. A crunchy electric guitar protrudes with distortion. Cymbals swoon to-and-fro. The soundscape organizes into a brief declaration of primitive, rustic rhythm and ends almost too soon. Dege always told me Dublin was like New Orleans in many ways and I can picture the Irish countryside when listening to this song. An ode to mourning, this one is an instrumental composition that had me wanting it to last forever.
The seventh song on Aurora is the Americana ballad “The Devil You Know”. A lap steel guitar twangs initially in this song. A piano soon accompanies as Brother Dege’s sandy voice walks us through his intentions and fears. And suddenly, I am transported from the shores of Ireland to a smokey honkytonk in Tennessee. The bridge is commanded by a beautiful phrasing of piano while the band lines the free space.
“Losers Blues” is that rock and swag sound that can only be cultivated from the deep south, celebrated in true blues fashion. It isn’t about what we have, but what we do not. He speaks of the rat race and the loss of a loser, and how he couldn’t make it stop.
We come to our final track, appropriately titled, “The Longing”. A classic Dege resonator slide song structured with a catchy Lennon, McCartney and Tom York influenced piano progression. As I am listening to this song, I am flooded with emotion, chills, memories, tears, joy, and questions. But that is what we experience when someone is taken from us too soon. Rather than convolute this beautiful song with my own emotions, I choose to acknowledge what it means to me. It is a final goodbye. I will just quote a few of his lyrics for “The Longing”, direct from Dege himself. “I might not belong here, here, anywhere, caught in the way. I am so lost in the longing, such a sad, little day. All the time you’re away for so long.”
This review is in a lot of ways my version of A Love Song for Bobby Long, for it is a swan song letter to my friend. Writing this was an incredibly painful and long process. For doing so meant I finally had to say goodbye to Dege, my musical brother in life and incredible friend. For weeks, I was selfishly not ready to let go. But within this process I found myself excited to share this album experience. Much like David Bowie and Jim Morrison’s final albums, you just have to really think inside and say, what a fucking brilliant note to go out on! All of these songs have Brother Dege’s personal flavor. But they also leave pages open to apply to anyone’s struggles, hopes, dreams, and losses. We can make these songs our own. Much like the perspectives many great painters, the art is for your lens. I hope this review encourages you to seek out Dege’s discography and multi-media catalog. He always loved the folk tradition of passing on songs and stories. There is no doubt in my mind he will be celebrated throughout history. You can find out more about Brother Dege’s life and works at https://brotherdege.net/home.
It’s funny how things came about. Post World War II families raised their children in the burrows of New York, eventually seeking a better life in the suburbs. Their children, however, would eventually come of age seeking the artful bohemia of cities like Manhattan. In the 1980’s, the East Village became a creative epicenter where people like bassist Dean Zucchero would cut his teeth. The industry was thriving back then with hundreds of clubs for bands like his. Notable destinations for live music included The Bitter End, The Cat Club, and later on, The Mercury Lounge. These clubs were on and near Bleecker Street, a two-mile stretch filled with live music venues connecting the East and West Villages. Dean’s band, Anastazia (later, Major Domo), was gunning for success back then. Each member would spend hours a week crafting and distributing mailers and fliers by hand, cultivating a following.
For a relatively unknown, original band in a sea of the same, some venues weren’t an option. But after landing a manager who was connected, they were able to play the famed CBGB’s in the East Village. Even with a high postured manager, this was no easy feat according to Dean. Monday auditions amongst ten other bands were a challenge and the owner was particular. Times like these seemed to always hold success just around the corner. Dean recalled one such occurrence, “The President of MCA flew in from L.A. to see us because his A&R guy said ‘you gotta see this band’. And then, as the night progressed, his partner got drunk and passed out at the table. So, he left early. And then when our manager got in touch with him the next day and said ‘what did you think’? He goes, ‘eh, I liked them but it wasn’t that great’. And he passed on the band.” But they kept trying, eventually finding an indie label that would sign them and invest a considerable amount of money. With this, the band could afford tri-state and east coast tours. It was fun while it lasted. But tight sets with four-part harmonies and a history nearly a decade long wasn’t enough to keep them together.
At this point Dean began to question why he was in this. Was it for the money and the fame? Sure. Was it for the women? Sometimes. But of himself, a man now in his early 30s wanted to know what aspect of being a musician truly interested him. He wanted to know how to pursue that. So, for the immediate future he would take a step back from writing and recording trying simply to be a working bassist. In this, Dean would find happiness, humility, and a better sense of the word “success”. A departure from living a transient lifestyle and constantly contending for attention brought him comfort. And a lineage that included some of the more prominent clubs in New York brought him an abundance of gigs.
Prior to all of this, before he ever picked up a guitar, Dean fantasized about being a musician. He wanted this before he ever knew what it meant to be such. So, finding a glimmer of direction in this transitional moment was serendipitous. It could have been on account of his brother exposing him to his record collection. It contained such influential albums as Led Zeppelin’s “Houses of the Holy”, Black Sabbath’s “Paranoid”, or Cat Stevens’ “Tea for the Tillerman”. He will affirm that his brother’s album “Who’s Next”, by The Who, is still his second favorite album of all time. He was a kid that wanted to rock. And he managed to do this at a level that most of us dream of. But The Beatles and Elton John, from his parents record collection, seeded in him a long-since unaddressed love for the blues. Now that Major Domo was no more, the urge to pursue this further resurfaced. His tastes were as a painter’s palette. And his shade of blues came more from Jimi Hendrix than, say, Muddy Waters. He dissected this succinctly by saying, “I think for blues, I don’t like hybrid music so much. I like blues-rock. I like blues in any music. But I don’t like jazzy rock. But I love blues-rock. And I love jazz. I love jazz infused with blues, but not really blues infused with jazz. So, I think blues is always a good ingredient to use in any style of music. It adds some color to it.” This statement stuck with me after the interview. You may need to read it a few times to get the gist. But being in the room with him at that moment, hearing him explain this, it made perfect sense.
After some time assuming his role as a working bassist around town, he landed a high-profile gig. Suddenly, stages in small blues bars were traded for crowd-front platforms with tens-of-thousands of eyes and ears looking on. And local real estate was dispensed with for all of Europe. Sadly, this was to become a breath of fresh air that would soon sour. He found that he did not care for the person he worked under. As this became more apparent, a relationship in his personal life floundered simultaneously. These once intoxicating potions had become too much for Dean. And we’ve all felt that moment when we start to realize that we have imbibed too much. Our immediate reaction is to begin brainstorming as to how to make our exit. Our brains struggling to reason through the fog of disenchantment. The situation bore feint similarities, in part, to what became disheartening with Major Domo. Only, this time the road was thousands of miles away from home.
He resolved to leave it all behind, returning home and once again shifting focus. He went back to NYU to pursue a career in entertainment law, taking a job at a law firm. His hope was that he could get into NYU law school. But the radical lifestyle change rubbed him the wrong way. Dean recalls, “I was playing while I was in school. But when I got the job at the law firm, I wasn’t playing so much. I was pretty busy and you’d have to work late hours. You had to be on call all the time. So, I said I’m going to put that (performing) aside for a little while. And then, slowly but surely after about eight months to a year, I started peeking in at some of the jams, seeing my friends playing. I started showing up with my bass. I just kinda got back into it. And then I just decided that’s it, I’m a lifer.” This was not at all time wasted. Through these times he was able to gain useful knowledge of the entertainment industry, as well as find his voice due to the demanding requirements of writing. It might seem hard to believe, but some of this writing he viewed in a creative light. In any argument, you must choose a perspective, then paint a picture to which your audience will be compelled to relate.
Returning to playing locally once again furnished Dean with that sense of familiarity and comfort. He placed much of the ill-fitting experiences in Europe on touring in general, dismissing the singular causations of an at-odds band leader and/or a withering love interest. Both of which are the very definition of resolve. While this might have spelled relief in some ways, restlessness would soon creep in. In 2004, while on break one evening from a gig, he ran into an old guitar player friend on Bleecker Street. The guy mentioned that he was about to go on the road with another musician. Piquing his interest, Dean told the friend to relay the message that if a bassist was needed, he would be interested. The next morning, the phone rang and it was his friend asking if he would be interested in going to Shanghai. Dean responded with “gimmie one hour”, and he was off across the water once again. He played in a band out there for three months, and Zurich, Switzerland would follow. He would spend roughly four years playing out there, even bringing Thomas Bucknasty over, whom he played with during his time in The Healers back in New York.
Dean then travelled to and lived in Italy for the next three years. The bands he played in during those times included one formed by American ex-patriots and a couple of European jazz bands. Dean cited a point of interest here which was, in all of Europe, the atmosphere differed in that people attended to see a show. He said this to illustrate that patrons would sit and pay attention. There was no background chatter or distraction. His success was, in part, due to his ability to deliver authentic American blues. He ultimately landed a gig with pop-jazz band Sugarpie and the Candy Men, playing with them for some time. The plan was to return to the U.S., finish recording their album, then go back to Europe for their tour. But as the album was completed, the tour began to fall through. By now, he’d spent so much time abroad that he no longer had a residence in New York. So, after three months of living in his brother’s basement, he decided to come down to New Orleans and see what it was all about. And this is how we have been honored with his talent and presence.
He’s seen Europe again since then, touring with Ghalia Volt and Mama’s Boys, as well as Cyril Neville. He’s played Jazz Fest with Cyril four times and went on tour to Africa with him. He even touched down in Australia with guitarist Sean Riley playing and touring. Back in ’89, Dean came to New Orleans for Jazz Fest. One of the records he purchased while in town was Uptown Rulers: The Meters Live on the Queen Mary. Imagine a world where, two decades later, he’s playing on stage at the Jazz Fest with Cyril Neville. This guy just hasn’t stopped. While acting as program director, promoter and house bassist at Bratz Y’all in the Bywater, he’s released an album, “Electric Church for the Spiritually Misguided”. He also produced, co-wrote, and performed on several tracks for Ghalia Volt. These works have landed him on the Billboard Blues Charts several times over. He released his album on his new label, Pugnacious Records. He then acted as producer and bassist to Sean Riley & the Water’s “Stone Cold Hands”, which also debuted on the Billboard Blues Charts. We went on to speak about his producing techniques and the musicians he has worked with since residing in New Orleans. My time with him was insightful and candid. So, I do hope you tune into the podcast to hear what it was like to walk in his shoes across continents. Famed bass player Charlie Haden once said, “The bass, no matter what kind of music you’re playing, it just enhances the sound and makes everything sound more beautiful and full.” Without a doubt, for the lives of so many around the world, Dean Zucchero has done just that.
From the outside looking in, one would not have guessed Adam Pearce would be the musician he is today. No one is his family played an instrument. His parents weren’t what he regards as music fanatics. And in high school, he spent his free time playing sports. Yet at eighteen, he found himself in the Silver Dollar Pawn and Jewelry store picking out a guitar. You may recognize that name, as it was the centerpiece of a show on television called Cajun Pawn Stars. With graduation on the horizon, he realized most people didn’t wear their class rings in the years following and figured he would get more use out of an instrument. So, his father agreed to let him get a guitar in leu of the momento. Two-hundred dollars landed him a pretty little thing off the wall, and away he went. He would attend the Alexandria branch of LSU for the next year and a half. And any spare time he came across was spent on that guitar. He picked up pointers from his father’s friend, his brother-in-law, and Youtube. He began writing almost immediately, assembling four of the five chords he knew to perform a song for his family. Seeing them impressed with what he composed fueled his newfound passion. And that guitar would accompany him on his move to LSU campus in Baton Rouge.
Though music was always at the forefront of his mind, he realized it would probably never pay the bills. So, college was just his way of going through the motions to secure some sort of future. Ironically, campus life provided him with the members he needed to form his first band, Black Magnolia. They scored their first gig at a bar called Bogies, frequented by fraternity and sorority members. And the band did well, performing around town often. With performances under their belt and a solid group of songs, the logical next step was to put out an album. Painting a typical picture, life rendered a passionate musician with small funds and big dreams. Paying for studio time was out of the question. So, he found a house for rent with a garage, obtaining permission from the owners to craft a studio in that garage. This process took roughly two years to complete from beginning construction to completing his album, “Fields Are Burning”. But this course was anything but smooth. At some point, he walked away from his job specifically to pursue a career in music. There was also a falling out between band members during the span of time following construction and preceding recording. He would be left with himself and his bass player. What little money he did have was reserved for an audio engineer. This meant he had a deadline to meet. The week before the album was due, he counted eight ulcers in his mouth. No doubt this was stress related. He scheduled a release party at the House of Blues in New Orleans which was supposed to coincide with his completed product. Though the album was completed, the physical CDs had not been pressed in time. So, he spent countless hours burning copies in the days leading up to the show. He stamped them all with the words, “redeemable later for a real album”. When people showed up to subsequent shows and presented that copy, he gave them a real CD free.
The following year held some big changes for Adam. He got married and moved from Baton Rouge to Jefferson, Louisiana. Within him lied an undercurrent of fear, seeded by a sense of urgency. He shuddered to think of what he might become. In his mind flashed the stereotypical musician, falling short of making ends meet and allowing his wife to support him. So, being both driven and tech savvy, he began to beat the internet down searching for gigs. Adam will tell you, even though he was realistic with his expectations, and even though he took a calculated approach, it was a lot harder than he expected. “Like pulling teeth” were the words he chose to describe the experience. He figured out early on that if he pitched himself as a solo acoustic performer, he could get more gigs. This dispensed with the scheduling issues common to bands with several members, as well as having to divvy up what little money venues paid. It also allowed him to perform smaller spots on weekdays, leaving his weekends open for larger venues. “My first gig that I got after I moved here. I was pumped about it. And they offered some BS bar ring deal; like twenty percent of the bar ring or whatever. Those are almost always BS deals. I don’t take that anymore. And I went and played three and a half hours, and I made twenty bucks. And I’m pretty sure I had a bar tab too, that I had to pay for.” Still, he persisted in blowing up the phone and devised an ingenious method on Google Maps for keeping things organized. “I would zoom out and I would have all these bars, little pins. And I would mark them red, black, green, or yellow. So, red would mean that was something open. I never even messed with it. Green was a gig that I had. It was like that’s a solid gig. And you could click on the little dot and put notes. So, it’s like, Rivershack Tavern, I got that gig. Here’s the contact, follow up with them to book a gig every once in a while. If I labeled it black, that was a dead-end gig. Like, it’s not gonna happen. I’m never gonna play there or the bar is closed. Yellow were all my (prospective) gigs. So, it’s like call back on Thursday between ten and twelve and speak to Rob or something. Most of my pins were yellow. So, I would get on there a few times a week… ok, I need to convert ten yellows to either green or black.” The visual element was something he enjoyed, and it helped to lend perspective in his efforts, offering focus. It also quickly shed light on what areas he needed to increase his presence and the areas in which he approached saturation.
Upon reflection, these things were apparent to me. First, college was and will always be a transient location. Some people maintain contact in the years following. But many go their separate ways. And this would probably happen regardless of any falling out he had with bandmates. Two, in speaking with Adam, I picked up on the fact that his level of dedication during the Black Magnolia era was unmatched. There was more to the story mentioned in the podcast interview that you can seek out below. But to think that he would’ve remained content with that arrangement for any amount of time is unlikely. Holding others to one’s own standard is a recipe for disaster. And he concedes that this happens with most bands. Burnout is compounded when you bear the brunt of this. But serendipity would step in when he received an email inviting him to try out for a popular television show, The Voice. He realized that people drive cross-country for an opportunity like this. And these tryouts were happening eight minutes from his house. So, he gave it a shot. Adam explains, “We’re in a room, like, the waiting room before you can go in and audition. So, we can hear everybody ahead of us auditioning. They get, like, ten seconds of singing and they go (clapping) ‘thank you for coming, bye’! They’re just cutting people. So, everybody in the waiting room is hearing everybody get axed… They know immediately if they’re not going to make it. So, that’s a little nerve wracking. You’re just hearing everybody get butchered.” Pushing his nervousness aside, he walked into a room with one person, a camera, and a square on the floor. He didn’t have a strap for his acoustic that day, but he spotted a stool in the corner and grabbed it fast. He belted out “Whole Lotta Love” by Led Zeppelin. At two minutes in, he was cognizant of the fact that they were still listening. He would be asked to play a second song, and then a third. Ultimately, he received a call-back and was flown to Los Angeles to audition in front of the executive producers.
After making it past these hurdles, Adam appeared on Season 12 of The Voice, performing in front of a live audience and judges That year was Adam Levine, Gwen Stefani, Alesha Keys & Blake Shelton. He didn’t get a chair turn. He cites being given “A Whiter Shade of Pale”, by Procol Harum, as one unfortunate circumstance that contributed to his demise and points out people don’t realize the contestants can’t choose their own song. He affirmed, “I was super pissed-off. If you go back and find that (footage), you can see it in my face. They were like, talking to me and giving me advice. And I just remember thinking y’all can all shut the hell up. I’m ready to just walk off this stage. Gwen Stefani is talking to me like, being all supportive. And I just wanted to be like, shut up. I was so angry, just like seeing red.” But that marked the end of the road for him. And, in case you’re wondering, I did ask, and he did say what stopped him from telling all of them to kiss his ass was the fact that seventeen million people were watching. He had to keep it together. Adam Levine was giving him advice. Carson Daily was all over him. All the while, he was just looking for the way out.
In a rare occurrence, he was one of three invited back the following season. And he was the only one to make it onto the show. This time he was given “Hot Blooded” by Foreigner, a much better match for his style. He made it four rounds into the show, landing him in the top twenty, but ultimately did not win overall. For him though, the whole experience was a victory. Bringing a silver lining to the picture, Adam said “I got a ton of publicity. All of my performances were at the end of the episode. And they built them up, showing little clips. And I never got montaged. So, some people that made it further than me in the show got less air-time than me because their performances got montaged.” He stressed what a great time he had, enjoying five full-length performances that aired internationally. He laughed when he admitted he snuck whiskey backstage, sipping after he got cut. He made it known to producers announcing, “I just wanna let y’all know I snuck whiskey back here. What are y’all gonna do, kick me off the show?” They directed contestants that didn’t make the cut to sit before a psychologist, then sent them on their way. He could see the importance of such a practice, being that for so many, this is THE make-or-break moment in their minds. Immediately following, Adam Levine invited Adam to perform with him for George Clooney’s Halloween party. He got to dress up in costume and sang with the celebrity. Sammy Hagar sang a song with him too and would later stick around to get drunk with Adam. His description of these experiences was priceless, and I do hope you tune into the podcast. Because no one can describe those moments like he did. I could not stop laughing!
After appearing on The Voice, the television show America’s Got Talent showed interest. And he got offers from the show I Can See Your Voice. But Covid effectively cancelled those opportunities. The show Don’t forget The Lyrics has also come calling. It appears as though he’s now in some pool of talent for TV appearances. In a strategic move, Adam dropped the Black Magnolia moniker directly following all of this, opting to seize notoriety by performing under his own name. And he launched a Kick Starter, raising twenty-three thousand dollars to fund his next album, Warbird. Overall, his attitude toward all of this has remained realistic and healthy. He recognizes those appearances as giant ads for his brand. Aside from his solo project, he plays in Mothership, a Led Zeppelin tribute band, four to five times a year. He puts out original music every few months and maintains a Youtube channel where he posts weekly.
In the weeks leading up to this interview, I took a poll asking followers on social media who they would like to see get interviewed. There were over one-hundred and fifty respondents; several of which named Adam Pearce. One in particular, Paula Belmont, stood out. After only a few days of having suggested Adam (and while the poll was still running), she asked “So, are you going to interview Adam or what?” The words on my screen made me want to retort with a “look lady…”. But I explained the polling and interviewing process and made clear my intention. She never left my mind. And when I finally did interview Adam, I mentioned the lady whose name escaped me at the time, describing our interaction. Adam instantly chimed in “Paula Belmont!” He went on to explain that she could best be described as a ‘super fan’ of his. I made it a point to message her when his podcast interview aired. Surprisingly, I did not hear from her. I later learned through a family member that she had passed away. So, I’d like to dedicate this article to Ms. Paula Belmont. My heart goes out to her family.
There is something to be said about the trials of those of us on the fringe, and the use of extreme music in our expression of these trials. Society at large would have everyone believe we are of some agnostic heresy, whereby all roads do not, cannot, lead to Rome. That somehow, we are not due the benefaction of such luxury and comfort. The way I see it, two options of recourse exist. One being to scale back, to tone down the saturation of color that fills the sounds we hear. The other is to simply own it. And not just own it but dissect it publicly, in an effort to turn everyone’s eyes and ears in its direction. So, beyond the electric, the notes hang low and long. Cymbals crash and voices howl proclaiming pain and love, and dreamlike images are draped amongst our ears. It is almost as if we bathe in the blood to not only savor the life, but to assure the nay-sayers observe its rich color upon our flesh. We dispense with the fear and angst because condemnation is no longer looming; it is here. It is now. And from this moment, it will use public denunciation to shape its being. Kirk Windstein lives here. His lyrical style reads like a voice that beckons from some semi-lucid dream state. Though it may coerce your mind toward the destructive pain, you cannot ignore the armorous scab created in its wake. “Sorrow grows. Life it dies. Strength within. Fuels my cries. Shattered hope. Born again. Will to live. Need to win.” (Obedience Thru Suffering). In days of old where augurs interpreted the will of gods, Kirk’s present-day lyricism presents itself as those of an oracle. His reflective counsel and wise words are electrified through stacks of speakers. He takes the time to execute his intent with each riff, dwelling within it to deliver a groveling message. Because to him, “heavy” isn’t necessarily defined by the instrument, or even the way it is played. It’s more the emotions evoked through his words.
Born in Middlesex, England in 1965, Kirk moved with his parents to Texas for a year before settling on Steamboat Ln. in River Ridge, Louisiana. His father had just completed his time in the U.S. Airforce and was delivering milk for his father in a milk distribution business. From the East Bank to the West Bank, Kirk’s summer ride-alongs would fill his ears with The Rolling Stones, The Who, and other classic rock stars. Popping out of his room on occasion during his parents’ cocktail parties yielded much of the same. He still remembers hearing those Rod Stuart and Bee Gee’s 45’s spinning. Coming into his own, he would cut grass and wash dishes to score the latest albums. “When I got my allowance every Friday, I’d get on my bike and ride from my house on Steamboat Ln. over to Barker’s Department Store. And I remember… an album with tax was $4.53. And I remember, I’d just got into Kiss. I saw Kiss Alive II, which was a double album. So, it was like maybe $6.99 plus tax. And I only had five bucks. So, I literally… I remember it vividly. I took the record, and I put it in the children’s music section. They only had one copy of Kiss Alive II… I hauled ass home on my bike and robbed, my sister knows, I robbed her piggy bank. And I had a pocket full of quarters or whatever. And I had my five bucks. And I went up and it was seven something for Kiss Alive. That started it all. From then on it was like, that was the thing, the bell, the epiphany… And it’s like, this is what I want to do.”
Kirk channeled this doggedness wholeheartedly into rock and roll. In the coming years, he would structure his pursuit in much the same fashion as the rest of his life; persistence, practice, organization, and perseverance. He would do so with an Epiphone Acoustic his parents bought him when he was twelve. That same persistence demonstrated enough merit for them to buy him a black Les Paul Custom on Christmas of 1978, courtesy of his dad’s cousin using an employee discount from Norland Music. For a while, Kirk attempted to learn the way many of us have, drinking in chords and pentatonic scales from his friend Ted Usie, and being introduced to theory from an instructor by the name of John Freeze. But beginning theory meant playing simple standards and Kirk was fiending for that rock and roll sound. While he never did put the guitar down, he bailed on lessons in just a few months. There were a couple of things that stood out in his mind during this time. He read somewhere that Eddie Van Halen had a back and forth with a high school teacher about what worked sonically and what didn’t. Eddie was classically trained in piano and still found moments to think outside the box. Classmates would affirm his suspicions that things could be unorthodox and still create a space in life. Kirk never forgot this. And one night back in ‘84, while trying to master a shredding piece from some famous musician, his father addressed Kirk’s frustration with words of wisdom. Kirk recounted his father’s advice, “Son, great musicians are a dime a dozen. There’s one on every street corner in New York. There’s one on every street corner in L.A. There’s one on every street corner in New Orleans looking for work. Great songwriters are few and far between. Why don’t you concentrate on writing music and quit worrying about how many notes you can play.” He carries these words with him to this day, along with that Les Paul Custom. And, to this day, if he’s holding a guitar, he’s either writing, rehearsing, or playing a gig.
The coming years included a commitment within him and a regimen of work and band practice. Weekdays following work at D.H. Holmes warehouse, from five until eight or nine, Kirk, Todd Strange, Sid Montz, and Danny Theriot would get together and practice in his parents’ garage. For just under two years, this was the routine. And he’s earmarked this time as one where he advanced the most. Not too long after, Kirk began hanging out with Mike Hatch. Mike brought Kirk to his first punk show when Black Flag played the Dream Palace in the French Quarter. This was at a time when the punk scene and the metal scene were veritable enemies of each other. This helped open Kirk’s eyes to a new scene. And being a staunch rejector of cover music, this was probably what prompted Kirk to eventually quit playing covers in ‘87. One day he got a call from Mike. He was making a move to San Fransisco, near his younger brother Greg, with Jimmy Bower and Mike Savoy. They all had second thoughts and were calling Kirk from a rest stop in Arizona to see if he would like to join their band, Shellshock. This came at a time when Kirk felt like he’d hit a wall creatively. For Kirk, this marked both a foray into a new genre and the first time he would meet Jimmy Bower (Eyehategod, Down, Crowbar, Superjoint Ritual, etc).
Following the death of Mike Hatch in ’88, Aftershock would be born. Short-lived, the remnants would go on to form the Slugs. Kirk and Jimmy would be reunited at this point, with Jimmy once again playing drums in this project. Jimmy was a key component in Kirk’s quest to curate sonics unlike any other because he always had a more punk sound. His influence paired well with Kirk’s stepping outside his own realm with Mike. We are all sponges moving throughout life. Fluids seep into us from our surroundings over the years. The things that drip out the bottom are all our own; an amalgamation of these influences forming a unique mixture. Jimmy would stick around for about a year, long enough to record a Slugs demo, before leaving for Atlanta to help family. He had made his mark with Kirk though, helping to form what was to become Crowbar. And Kirk will say he still tunes to B because of he and Jimmy’s love for Carnivore’s album, Retaliation. Kirk would continue to surround himself with talented people who were also pursuing this underground vein. He would also side-step a near complete band break up when an interested indie label, Pavement Music, called with interests of publishing an album with him. This would begin a five-year relationship between he and Pavement Music, and mark the assemblance of Obedience Thru Suffering, Kirk’s first release under label. The immediate future of what was to become Crowbar unfolded in rapid succession. Kirk explains here, “I knew how good of a drummer Craig (Nunemacher) was, so we went to go talk to him; me and Todd (Strange). And Kevin Noonan who is an amazing guitar player, who had played in the Slugs on and off, and played with me in Victorian Blitz for a while, was playing in the band that Craig was playing in. It might have been the Moon Crickets. So, we talked to Craig a little bit. I said you know what, as much as I’m into the Melvins and Sabbath and all that, I’m totally into Thin Lizzy and Trouble; bands that just have amazing two guitar harmony stuff. So, we went to try and get Craig and ended up with Craig and Kevin. Which really was a great blessing in disguise because it turned Crowbar into a harmony guitar driven band.”
Whether it be in his opinion or your own, he has resided in an atmosphere of heavy, underground music ever since. For both lyrics and sound, he sometimes writes “by the seat of his pants”. He may show up to the studio with one or two good riffs. And the rest comes in real time. Under these conditions, his lack of theory has become an advantage. Though it has come to mind on more than one occasion (and for more than one project), pandering to the satisfaction of a crowd hasn’t broken his stride because he remains in the realm of the underground. Innovation is a mainstay there, as are Kirk’s motives, regardless of audience reception. A prime example of all of this would be an unreleased track on one of his projects, EyeAm (working song title, Etta James). He had filmed himself that morning working out a riff on guitar. Kirk recalls, “Kenny (Hickey) had this little thing and I had this riff that was kind of Hendrixy to me. We kind of put them together. It’s kind of like, you know, we’re still developing our sound but that’s bringing in a new element to me. It’s a classic 70’s… could be a Robin Trowerish or bluesy Zeppelin Tea For One thing. There’s no rules, and there’s really no ending to anything.” That last sentence might as well become Kirk’s mantra. He is currently active in Crowbar, Down, Kingdom of Sorrow, his solo project, and now, EyeAm.
Employing things like remote studio sessions from contributors and setting time aside in blocks for each project keeps this manageable. Right now, he’s in EyeAm world. He will be in Crowbar’s world come the first of the year. Down will be starting back up soon too, writing and recording new material. And his second solo effort has been wrapped since the summer of last year. At this point, and with so many projects actively producing, it becomes a question of strategy when it comes to release time. But it simply must remain this way in order for him to be happy. It puts him where he wants to be found, in the studio. For the socialite, being in public is what makes them tick. But for the creative, society does not nourish them. The creative prefers to be found in places conducive to creation. With this, his methods fortify his direction. It’s really no different than when he was a child working for money and riding his bike miles to get an album. Or when he was just out of high school committing to twenty hours of practice despite a forty-hour work week. One constant remains certain, that he has and will continue to make an indelible mark on Louisiana’s music scene, and do so as our ambassador to the heavy metal world.
As children, we’ve all experienced one family member that seemed to have more of an impact on us that the rest. Their words, habits, or tendencies are something we still carry with us to this day. For Taylor Nauta, that person was his grandfather. With his dad at work most of the time and his mother having fallen ill, the two spent much time together. Though their generational gap spanned some fifty-eight years, they connected through music. Taylor’s grandfather was a country music fan and shared this passion with Taylor. The needle would drop onto a record, heavy knobs were turned on a vintage Sony stack unit, and the eyes of a child grew wide. Twangy melodies and rustic notions emanated from wood cabinet speakers, filling Taylor with the tenets of those like Merle Haggart, Johnny Cash, Roger Miller, and Waylon Jennings. These were voices that predated Taylor’s very existence; each with a style all their own. In speaking with Taylor about these moments, I could tell they posed more than a simple child-like fascination. Whether either of them realized it or not, his grandfather instilled in Taylor what became a deep-seeded respect for history and a value in sentiment. Those indoctrinated with this are the ones who dissuade future generations from diluting keystones like societal mores and cultural traditions.
Taylor first picked up a guitar at the age of seven under the direction of his grandfather, who also played. Those vinyl sessions began to take new meaning, as Taylor tried to decipher audio that passed through aged tweed. By fourteen, Taylor was playing constantly and even writing his own songs. But he had gotten all he could out of the guitar he was given. The strings sat far off the neck, making it a challenge to both play and keep in tune. One night, he played a song for his father and grandfather that really impressed them both. It was a Chet Adkins styled piece where he plucked an alternating bassline with his thumb while simultaneously playing the melody with his fingers. As he sang along in a Jimmy Rodgers yodeling manner, both realized that he had become something greater than expected. Soon, they would pitch in and buy him his first really nice guitar, a Takamine F-349. That solid wood top and high-quality tone wood so inspired him to keep learning and growing as a musician. It comes as no surprise that by the age of fifteen, you could find him at school playing tunes like Cannonball Rag, a Merle Travis record from 1952. And you could find the girls passing him by to listen to the emo musician down the hall. After noticing this, Taylor chose country radio stations of the time over his grandfather’s records when searching for inspiration. Moving forward, he would come to realize that material born out of the early 90’s was far superior to the pop style country that would come from the early 2000’s. He stated, “The guitar solos and cool intros were common in 90’s country. And now they’ve just about gutted that stuff out. If there’s a guitar solo at all in today’s country, it’s short; real short, like a lick or two and you’re out of it.” Though he explored his sonic surroundings to sample what was out there, he remained true to his roots when it came to musicianship. He considers himself lucky to have experienced both the solid foundation of his predecessors and the remarkable creativity that was characteristic of early 90’s country music. He shudders to think what he might have become if he grew up during the era of pop infusion.
They say hindsight is 20/20, but at this point Taylor was just a kid trying to find his way. We all can recall moments in our lives when perhaps we didn’t know which way to go. He had an idea of where he wanted to end up. He wanted to sing and play guitar like the stars he’d seen as a child on The Grand Old Opry. Likewise, he knew the caliber of musician he wanted to be but may not have known what things landed him below that mark. At one point, he had the benefit of a few months with an instructor. This taught him things like basic theory and the concepts of scales and modes. Although short lived, this helped him immensely. As he was able to recognize when guitarists articulated pentatonic, major scale and arpeggio methods in songs. At seventeen, he was invited to the studio of James Marsden, a man whom, among other things, held several credits for Disney song production. Taylor was able to perform a few songs for James and hear his thoughts. James expressed reassurances, but pointed out that there was room for improvement. He told Taylor to listen to songs by Rascal Flats or Clint Black and ask himself what gives those artists their signature style. Then try writing songs in the vein of those artists; songs that Taylor thought would be performed by those artists. He also suggested Taylor purchase a metronome or drum machine because he found Taylor to be playing along more with his voice than the rhythm signature. Taylor went out and bought a Digitech FX pedal that came with drum loops. Following James’ advice tidied up his right hand quite a bit, cementing this gift in his mind.
The following year in 2006, he moved from his hometown of Baton Rouge, Louisiana to Nashville to pursue his dreams. He arrived with his acoustic Takamine F-349, a Telecaster, and a duffle bag. He would be living in Franklin, a suburb just south of Nashville, in an apartment with Vickie, a church acquaintance of his aunt. He had thirty days to find a job and start paying rent. One day, he was at the mall and saw a sign with a job opportunity for a karate instructor. He had taken years of Tang Soo Do as a child, but the sign was for Tae Kwon Do. Still, he sold himself stating that both were Korean martial art styles and was given a job as an instructor at the Yong In Martial Arts Academy. With his financial piece being solved, he began to put together more of the puzzle. Taylor frequented the local clubs and bars to get a taste for what was out there. He spent countless nights waiting in line to perform at writer’s rounds. Very quickly, he realized how small of a fish he had become in such a big pool of talent. But his thirst for success could not be depleted. When not roaming the entertainment district, he would practice in a loft above the gym at Vickie’s apartment complex. One of those evenings, a man poked his head up to talk to Taylor. He complimented Taylor on his music and, handing him a business card, asked if he would come play some songs for him at his place. The stranger turned out to be Walt Aldridge, a member of The Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame and The Alabama Music Hall of Fame. His repertoire included hits for Travis Tritt, Conway Twitty, Tim McGraw, Reba McEntire, Ronnie Milsap, and Barbara Mandrel (And I’m only scratching the surface here).
The night Taylor went to Walt’s place, Walt handed an old Gibson to him and asked what he thought of it. Though it looked a bit old and worn, Walt explained that the guitar used to belong to Johnny Cash. Taylor was frozen, taking notice of how the buttons on his shirt were touching this holy grail of instruments. After playing a few of his tunes, Walt imparted some insight to Taylor. He told Taylor that he thought his songs were good but admitted he hadn’t heard a hit. He felt Taylor needed to trim the fat. “Genius is when big implications are expressed with fewer words”, he said. Walt critiqued each one of Tayor’s songs individually. He would send Taylor off with homework assignments, directing him to write songs meant for certain artists and critique those as well. With his work cut out for him musically, Taylor was able to inch forward occupationally when Vickie tapped on a church acquaintance to land him a job at Gibson Guitars. His pay jumped from $8 to $12 an hour, which was decent money back in 2006. While there, he befriended an ex-marine by the name of Brian James. Brian was a bit older than Taylor, had nice gear, and had an overall cool image. He played in a rock band in the Marine Corps and had experience playing in a touring band before coming to Gibson. Taylor looked up to him. One day Taylor asked him how he could learn to play like Brian. The first thing Brian wanted to know was who Taylor was listening to. When Taylor started naming named like Merle Haggard and Chris Ledoux, Brian began to shake his head and replied, “No, man, you’re never going to become a great player listening to that stuff. Here’s what you need to listen to.” Brian turned Taylor on to musicians like Joe Bonamassa, Kenny Wayne Shephard, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Albert King, and Buddy Guy. The world of blues-rock was an influence Taylor hadn’t considered before. He crawled through the works of these artists and, by the time he watched Eric Clapton’s Crossroads DVD, he was hooked. He even went out and bought a Stratocaster because he loved the blues sound so much.
Technically speaking, the blues were more attainable to Taylor. The licks weren’t as involved as what he had been playing. Taking in the big picture, I’d say it was just what he needed to push himself further at that time. If you recall, James Marsden recommended he pay more attention to his timing, urging him to get a metronome or a drum machine. And with a groove music like blues, timing is everything. With some hard work, the time he spent with Brian would enable him to improve his repertoire. And with all of the work he put in at Gibson, he was able to move out of Vickie’s apartment and get a place of his own. Things were looking up. But so far, the only exposure he had to performing in front of crowds was at writer’s rounds with his acoustic. A local musician by the name of Dustin Wilkes was performing one night at Tootsie’s Organ Lounge, a place Taylor frequented. The guitarist, Brad Wolf, was someone he followed and respected. Taylor would often hit the guy with a barrage of questions about his gear and his technique. So, it was easy for Brad to surmise that Taylor was an aspiring musician. One night Brad needed a cigarette break. He looked at Taylor, pointed to his guitar, then pointed to him with a quizzical look on his face. Taylor eagerly responded. This would mark the first time a teenaged Taylor was in front of a crowd, with a band, and with an electric guitar. The band started running through songs to see which ones he knew and could play. They arrived at something he was ready to play, “Right Where I need to Be”, by Gary Allen. They followed with “Folsom Prison Blues”, by Johnny Cash and “Can’t You See”, by The Marshall Tucker Band. He was able to sing that night as well. And to top it all off, he got the nod from Dustin Wilkes. Dustin performed on the famed tv show, The Nashville Star. So, his approval meant a lot to Taylor. It also meant scoring his own gig at Tootsie’s, which would, in turn, lead to others.
Taylor was able to form a band, playing bars, parties, and casinos all over town. He would also eventually meet a girl and fall in love. She happened to be the grand daughter of Merle Kilgore, who co-wrote Burning Ring of Fire, managed Hank Williams Jr., and was the president of the Country Music Awards. The two married and had children. But as Taylor put it, “she was too generous with her affections” and the two would divorce. He reached a point where he needed to put some miles between himself and how flawed his personal circumstances had become. It was time for him to leave Nashville. His musical identity had taken a long time to figure out. Comparing and contrasting while in the eyes of a crowd accelerated this process for him while there. So, his time in Nashville was invaluable. Brian James, his co-worker at Gibson, was what he considers to be one of the pivotal moments in his life. I’d say his meetings with James Marsden and Walt Aldridge had meaningful impacts as well. The two echoed the importance of timing and overall song arrangement. The fact that Walt chose to invest time in him was perhaps something he hadn’t considered during that moment. The man’s background towered over Taylor and nervousness was more prevalent. But during these experiences, a young kid was learning and growing, and shoring up his ego bit by bit. Today, with three singles, two albums, and countless hours performing for crowds under his belt, Taylor still remains astute. His diversity and experiences have enabled him to play throughout the gulf south, Tennessee, Kentucky, the Midwest, up and down the west coast, and Canada. And he continues to stand as a creative force in our music community. In March of 2022, he released his debut album, “Walk of Shame Hall of Fame”. They were followed that same year by two singles, “Shittin’ on Company Time” and “Shrimp Boots”. Then, in January of 2023, he released another single titled “Fuck Everything”. And he followed that with a second album in December titled, “Weather the Storm”. A flood in 2016 spelled the end for that first real guitar his father and grandfather chipped in to buy him. But his wife had it painted, and it now hangs on his wall. This, along with the words and melodies of Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash, Hank Thompson, and other names of old are some of the things that Taylor carries with him to this day. Instilled within him is a deep appreciation for the family and the music from whence he came. And you can hear it in his music today. The solos still ring true, the origins are carried forth, and his spin on those traditions are what he brings to the table. He is the genuine article.
For most of us, the first thought that comes to mind when someone mentions streaming music is the majors: Spotify, Apple Music, and Amazon Music. But what about Youtube Music? And have you heard of Tencent? I suggest you find out because, at over thirteen percent of the market share, Tencent rivals Apple and Amazon. We’re going to discuss all these things. We’ll hear from bands speaking on how they get featured on playlists and talk with a playlist curator as well. Amidst this smorgasbord of music circulation, you will also see sprinklings of Bandcamp. All of these things are intertwined, trust me.
This article began with the discovery of a compilation that featured metal musicians from Louisiana. With forty bands totaling a nearly four-hour long album, I was happy to soak in every riff on my long drive to Houston. Somewhere along the line, I started to recognize some of the tracks as being from bands that are members of my free networking website, Neworleansmusicians.com. Brethren Hogg, Vermillion Whiskey, Pious, Electric Age, 4Mag Nitrous, and Totem are all current site members and were amongst the bands featured. I could not have been more elated! I wanted to know more about Weedian and how my members were able to get on this list.
As it turns out, Weedian is on Spotify, Youtube, and Bandcamp. Their Youtube channel enjoys over thirty-five thousand subscribers and has published nearly fifteen-hundred videos. On Bandcamp, where you’ll find all of their compilations, their work really gets to shine, complete with descriptions and unique album art. In January of 2019, they published their first, titling it simply “Volume 1”. According to a person only known as “The one and only Weedian” (who I would later find out is Walid Ajraoui), “Weedian was started because I love music and most especially underground music. I wanted a way to be able to find and share cool bands with people who had the same taste in music that I do. So, after a lot of thinking and some talking, I’ve decided to make a compilation of songs from some of my favorite bands, and Blues Funeral Recordings was cool enough to partner up with me to help bring it to you. This will be the first volume in the Weedian comp. series. I chose these bands because these are who I’ve been digging a lot lately. Although it’s pretty heavily tilted towards doom, there are some stoner and other styles of bands in there. I hope that you enjoy the music and the sick artwork by Brouemaster who has been churning out some incredible stuff lately.”
They would go onto publish fifty-eight of these compilations. Barring Roman numerals I through IV, two Halloween volumes and two 420 volumes, the remaining have been centered around states in the U.S. and places all over the world like New Zealand, Denmark, Argentina, and Portugal. They’ve used Instagram to commission the bulk of their cover artwork. In January of 2024, Weedian’s “Trip to Louisiana” compilation came into existence. Mike Dawsey from the band Pious said, “I’m not 100% sure how they originally found us. JJ at Obelisk, Rob Hammer, and George Kellamis (aka Mrdoom666) were sharing some of our stuff. Both were working with Doom Charts. We randomly got a request for submission for the charts from the guy at Weedian. Nothing came of it and we didn’t hear anything for a while. Out of the blue he hit us up asking if we wanted to do the trip compilation.” While there wasn’t any compensation reaped as a result of their feature, they did see positive results. Their band name started popping up in online tags, and fans began messaging them about where Pious was showing up. Mike went on to say, “Since that (compilation) came out, multiple people have rearranged it for their own versions and a few online and on-air stations have put it in their programs. Mostly in Europe, but they still appreciate most forms of metal over there. So far, the UK, Germany, and Russia seem to be the most responsive.”
I spoke with another Neworleansmusicians.com member that was also featured in the Louisiana compilation, Brethren Hogg. This time, the band’s inclusion was an intentional result of networking online. Chris Posner had this to say, “When we release an album, we have a list of Youtube content creators that we hit up for reposting. We look for people/groups that have more than 10k followers for maximum exposure, but we’ve also been approached by smaller creators asking permission to post, which I usually give 99.99% of the time. I hadn’t heard of Weedian when released our first record, but when the second one dropped, a friend of our drummer clued us in. I emailed them (I guess it’s more than one person???) and once they listened to the record, they reposted. About a year and half later they messaged me saying they were putting together “Trip to Louisiana”, and asked if we were interested, and which track would we wanted featured. We’ve seen a decent bump on both Spotify and Bandcamp in the last month. Not as much as if we had a new release, but new listeners are definitely being reached. To be frank, we were honored and surprised to be a part of this because there so many other great metal acts down here, they could easily put out a Volume 2. Weedian’s a bit mysterious…I don’t who they are and I’m pretty sure they’re located in Asia, but God bless ‘em for the work they do.”
With a shared ecosystem already established between Youtube and Bandcamp at this point, I reached out to a guy Mike Dawsey (Pious) mentioned earlier, Rob Hammer. In the past, Rob had put out a ten-track stoner/doom/sludge/psych compilation as part of a joint venture with Off The Record Label. 750 CDs were pressed with 50 going to each band featured. But his mainstay is his Youtube channel, @Rob.DOOM.Hammer. Approaching thirty-thousand subscribers, he’s a prime example of what bands like Brethren Hogg are using to push their music online. He described himself as a European mainlander that spreads and promotes doom, stoner, and sludge metal as a hobby. He follows over twelve-thousand bands on Bandcamp, finding music to post on his channel. He also finds them via his Facebook page and through bands that contact him directly. Like Rob, there are many people curating playlists on Youtube and it will be up to the bands to hunt them down and amass their own lists. But the main takeaway is that these people are fans at heart. They’re not some huge record label with layers upon layers obscuring a stubborn front door. I found Rob to be extremely approachable with a genuine interest in spreading the kind of music he loves. From the perspective of a consumer, these curated channels are a great way to learn about bands you might not have heard before. I like to run through these gems on my phone while I have my favorite streaming platform open. When I hear something I like, I swap over and save the song to my streaming platform playlist. From the perspective of a musician, this is a D.I.Y. method worth perpetuating. If gaining fans and song plays is the goal on streaming platforms, then getting your music on playlists, no matter the platform, should be your first consideration.
There is one last thing I’d like to touch on concerning Youtube. I’m sure you are all aware that Youtube and Youtube Music are two separate online destinations. For bands, the former would serve you in the form of a regular Youtube channel created with the selected type “musician”. The latter refers to a music streaming service with an interface that operates like Spotify and others and is driven by Youtube’s infrastructure. There’s plenty of information already out there about this. So, I won’t get into all of that. You can investigate the differences and what that means for your band’s work. As far as the user experience, I would like you to consider a few tidbits. Having a Youtube channel allows musicians to connect with fans on a more personal level. They can see things like your music writing process, impromptu jam sessions, footage from shows, and an overall look into your life as a musician. Youtube Music has its pro’s as well. It offers a higher bandwidth than the normal Youtube app on mobile, allowing lossless quality (up to 256 kbps AAC audio) for the user. And they can also lock their phone while listening on this subscription-based app. Their music platform audience recently reached 100 million subscribers, making this means of distribution worth pondering.
Last, but definitely not least, is Tencent. Tencent Music Entertainment Group is the dominant online music entertainment platform in China. For musicians looking to publish their music in China, know that this company consists of three music streaming apps: QQ Music, Kugou Music, and Kuwo Music. While perhaps not on the radar in America, Tencent is bigger than you may realize. They own a stake in Spotify, own a music label with Sony (Liquid State), and they have 594 million listeners as of the third quarter of 2023. Although it is not a must, you may want to consider a distribution platform to assist you in publishing on Tencent. Because, while Google has a site translator to overcome the fact that their site is in Chinese. It is said that the instructions walking you through the process can be a bit confusing due to the gap in translation. Sugomusic.com is one of the services out there that, among the more familiar platforms like Spotify, Apple, Youtube, etc., includes Tencent amongst a distribution plan that boasts 200 streaming and download platforms. There are costs associated with this down the line. But set up and submissions are free. They are the oldest distributor in digital music. And case studies are available online showing organic traffic, keyword rankings, and sales increases considerably when using their platform. Amuse.io is another available distribution platform. They offer a three-tiered membership with the entry level being free. Using Amuse, you are able to select from a variety of music streaming services, including majors like Spotify, Apple Music, and Google Play to complete the process of getting your music on Tencent’s various streaming platforms. There are many out there that can accommodate you when trying to get your music both overseas and in the U.S. This would be another instance where you will have to do your own research to find what suits you (and your budget) best.
Streams, no matter the platform, help grow your audience at shows and make them more receptive to your social postings. They can also show merit in the eyes of concert and festival talent buyers, record labels, and other bean counters in the industry. Likewise, the number of places your music can be found can serve to polish your image. Because of the data that sometimes accompanies your streaming numbers (think dashboard where you publish), streaming platforms can also help a band book shows where an audience is most receptive to their music. So, having more of these in your corner can only serve to make your next move more impactful. I know this is all a lot to take in. But I hope that I have helped to open your eyes to the importance of these options and what they could mean for your music career.
