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Gillian Welch and David Rawlings Go Their Own Way In American Music.
By Brendan Doherty
SINGERS DON'T NECESSARILY have to live the lives they sing
about. Bonnie Raitt, for example, studied at Harvard before studying
the lost blues song manner of Sippie Wallace. John Fogerty had
perennially dry feet in San Francisco when he wrote "Born
on the Bayou," and made his first trip to that place of song
in 1995. Gillian Welch sings like she's a character talking out
of a Dorothea Lange or Walker Evans WPA photograph--by turns,
the blight of the Dust Bowl in Oklahoma, a moment of repose among
other women in Pie Town, New Mexico.
Her sepia-toned songs are spare, and they warn that the rural
life is little more than toil and trouble. Her acoustic duets
with David Rawlings could be high-fidelity songs a near descendant
of the original Carter family would play. But don't call them
Appalachian revivalists.
"People look at the way we present ourselves, and they're
lulled by our acoustic demeanor and recording," says Welch.
"It sounds like something you know--the Carter Family and
other things. But there's a lot of stuff going on in there that
isn't the Carter Family. We grew up listening to Neil Young, so
it can never be as pure as the Carter Family.
"We play as an acoustic duet," she adds. "I work
in that older format of singer and guitar. What's actually going
on with the story of the song, the subject matter and the emotional
tone is very modern. The songs are different, and my God, what
David Rawlings is doing...it's not traditional at all. If you
plugged him in to somebody's amplifier, I think people would stop
calling us Appalachian traditional. He wouldn't change a thing
except presentation. With the traditionalists, you change one
note, and it's not traditional at all."
On their most recent CD, the masterful Hell Among the Yearlings
(Almo), produced by the famed T-Bone Burnett, Welch sings the
lives of several characters, leaving the listener wondering who
Welch really is. In "Caleb Meyer," Welch doesn't have
to be the woman who kills the man who tries to rape her. Nor does
she have to be the man who contemplates his sins in "Good
Till Now," or the morphine addict in "My Morphine."
Her new songs are about work and weariness. It may not be the
best time in economic terms to sing about that subject, but her
1930s inflected cast of migrant and misfit stories are bigger
than any bull market. There will always be people who tragically
turn to the bottle or the Bible to escape terrible situations,
and listeners who feel better at the door of someone more miserable
who sings as if her life depended on it.
"There are lots of reasons why it's a great time to be singing
folk music," says Welch. "Look at who was nominated
for a Grammy this year in the Contemporary Folk category: Wilco,
Emmylou Harris, Lyle Lovett, Steve Earle. These are a bunch of
high-powered artists who weren't aligned with this category of
music. People are standing up and saying, 'I'm part of this Americana
thing.' It's never been an established genre or movement, but
it's encompassing."
Welch's own 1996 Grammy-nominated debut disc, Revival,
sparked a wicked spate of press. Rolling Stone, among other
publications criticized Welch because she was from California
and not Tennessee. Welch is the daughter of Hollywood songwriter
parents who composed songs for television, including The Carol
Burnett Show. It may be that her response to them, a more
personal sentiment, may be found on the song "Whiskey Girl."
In it, Welch sings as a woman who drinks to stay with a loser
and says "don't you know that it ain't a crime, if all the
squares and the junkmen think you're out of line."
Welch grew up very close to the bluegrass hotbed of Santa Cruz,
California--a scene that brought Laurie Lewis, among others, to
the genre. While attending the University of Santa Cruz, Welch
says she fell in love with the music of Ralph Stanley. She went
to the Berkelee School of Music in Boston, and met Rawlings, her
accompanist, in 1991.
"I took every damn songwriting class there," says Welch.
"And I didn't feel like sticking around. We were really outsiders
there. It's mostly all heavy-metal people and jazz-heads. When
I met David, we just started playing old-time country music together."
Writers undeservedly cursed her for her success, continuing to
criticize her for not being predictable, or being the vessel for
their mythic ideas about sparse acoustic music and where it should
come from. Welch and Rawlings' style is more closely related to
what country music seems to have been before 1950, rather than,
say, Shania Twain.
"Maybe we're just going to be pigeon-holed as Appalachian
traditional," says Welch. "But if you add a banjo and
a fiddle, we're bluegrass. Add a bass and drums, and we're in
that alternative country thing. We've really struggled to keep
the side musicians at bay. They're everywhere. Talk about selling
records, I think that's the quick recipe for greater commercial
appeal. So screw it."
As Lucinda Williams and Emmylou Harris might attest, love of
the music is not a birthright, but an earned right.
Gillian Welch and David Rawlings perform at 7:30
p.m. on Sunday, April 18, at the UASocial Sciences auditorium.
Tickets are $15 in advance, $17.50 day of show, and are available
at Zip's on University, Guitars Etc., Hears Music, Antigone Books
and Enchanted Earthworks. For more information call 529-0356.
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