Showing posts with label Ryan Bingham. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ryan Bingham. Show all posts

Thursday, March 21, 2019

How Ryan Bingham’s Album ‘American Love Song’ Addresses Border Politics


By Jim Beaugez
https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-country/ryan-bingham-new-album-american-love-song-793600/
February 12, 2019

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Ryan Bingham has been pondering the meaning of America lately — the optimism in the midst of struggle, the triumphs amid the losses. Men and women looking for a fresh start. Families like his, who pinned their hopes on the next town or job, always chasing that ephemeral dream.
Bingham has lived it all, and sometimes all at once. Just as his song “The Weary Kind,” featured in the 2009 movie Crazy Heart, thrust him into the national conversation — winning him Oscar, Grammy and Golden Globe awards — he lost his mother to alcoholism and his father to suicide.
Nearly a decade and two albums removed, he’s pulled together a surprisingly upbeat, bluesy collection of songs that doesn’t shy away from big-ticket topics. American Love Song [Axster Bingham], out February 15th, is his most personal and political album to date, a rolling blues-country workout awash in slide guitar, soaring gospel-roadhouse stomps and meditative folk fingerpicking that takes on his past with a cautious hope for the future.
“This record is all about … these different pieces and moving parts of this country,” Bingham tells Rolling Stone Country. “It’s about growing up in all these different parts of America and experiencing all these different cultures … a bit of a love song and love story about getting through it all.”
Growing up on the margins in a ranching family set adrift, Bingham learned from the jump what it’s like to be on the outside looking in. His family’s land in New Mexico was gone by the time he was old enough to know it, scattering his extended family among the oil fields from Bakersfield to the Texas coast in search of steady work. The Binghams traveled light, and no matter where they landed, it never lasted.
“[Before each move], my old man would pawn a lot of shit, and we didn’t have a lot of room to pack stuff,” Bingham said. “You kind of had one box and whatever you could fit in it, that was what you got to take.”
Festering drug and alcohol problems followed them from job to job and kept them on the move, never to the nice side of town. While each relocation may have been a chance to start over to his parents, for a schoolkid the revolving door was a challenge to navigate.
“It was kind of holding on to these little pieces of an identity as you moved around to these different places, trying to hold on to who you are, but at the same time you always had to adapt to this new situation,” he says.
Bingham learned to absorb new cultures out of necessity. In Houston, he befriended Wilbert Fleming, a rodeo kid from the rough Acres Homes neighborhood who introduced him to the black cowboy scene, local hip-hop like UGK, and Cajun cooking from his Creole grandmother. In Laredo, Texas, he rode bulls on the south side of the border and learned the Tejano standard “La MalagueƱa” on guitar, measure by measure, from one of his dad’s drinking buddies.
Laredo, as it turned out, was where he began to put together all the pieces of his story. The music he had grown up hearing — albums by Bob Wills, Allman Brothers and Townes Van Zandt, salvaged from the tavern on the old ranch — were a link to something permanent and rooted. The bull-riding he learned from his uncle gave him something to look forward to on the weekends, when he could take his mind off the construction and handyman work he picked up during the week. He eventually started bringing his guitar to the rodeos to sing and play for his friends.
“Jingle and Go,” the first cut on American Love Song, picks up Bingham’s story from there. Driven by honky-tonk piano with an assist from Taura Stinson’s inspired gospel backing vocals, Bingham sings about his early days playing rowdy Texas roadhouses for tips. Festive zydeco fiddle plays the hook on the rocking “Pontiac,” while Hill Country acoustic blues backs Bingham on “Beautiful and Kind.” “What Would I’ve Become” muses on how things might have turned out had he played it safe and settled in one of the dusty towns he bounced around growing up.
American Love Song turns outward on “Situation Station,” which calls out politicians — particularly President Trump — for “selling them lies” to the working poor, while pointing out, “In the end, we’re all waiting in the same station.” The hits keep coming on “Got Damn Blues,” an anthem of determination to overcome the ever-present chaos he sees around him.
Throughout the album, Bingham intentionally relates his American story from the melting pot of influences that define him.
“There are so many different walks of life, there’s so many different people,” he explains. “I feel like I’ve been shaped by all these different things, whether it’s music from different cultures, food, different languages, all that stuff.”
Down in the border towns like Laredo, where a narrow river carves through the landscape and divides two countries, the question Bingham poses on “America” lingers:  “America, where have you gone? There was a dream you gave us once. Is it not for everyone?”
As a teenager, Bingham made trips across the Rio Grande with his friend Malacho, an American by birth who spoke broken English, to watch Mexican rodeos. Even though Malacho was an American citizen, he struggled knowing his prospects here were slim.
“He’s like, ‘What am I gonna do, Ryan, go mow lawns for a living or work at McDonald’s?’ When 10 of his cousins are, you know, making tons of money smuggling stuff across the border.”
Bingham doesn’t believe the current border narrative, that the majority of people crossing are “criminals and thugs.” From his own experience, he sees vulnerable women and children hoping to escape bad situations. Not unlike his own family all those years ago.
“I’ve helped some of them come across the border, and that’s exactly what they are — a lot of women and kids down there just kinda looking for a better life,” he says. “It’s pretty heartbreaking to me to see how anybody would not take some of these people in and try to give them a fair shot.
“These different kinds of people have taken care of me throughout my life and made me who I am. I feel like I’m as much a part of those cultures as I am anything.”

Today's Tune: Ryan Bingham - Wolves

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Today's Tune: Ryan Bingham - Broken Heart Tattoo (Live in West Hollywood, CA)

'Fear and Saturday Night': How Ryan Bingham Defeated Darkness on Surprising New LP


Oscar winner finds happiness on a new album written in complete solitude

BY  



Ryan Bingham is happy. For someone who memorably sang on his last album, "Some say the angels are all looking down. I only saw vultures circling around," this marks a seismic shift.

That release, 2012's bleak Tomorrowland, dealt with the aftermath of his parents' deaths — his mother from alcohol and his father by suicide. Though their loss still weighs heavily on his mind, Bingham has more good days than bad now, in part due to the upcoming birth of the singer-songwriter's first child with wife Anna Axster. On Fear and Saturday Night, out today, Bingham explores the newfound joy of having someone by his side as he moves from the dark into the light.

Recorded with a new band — Bingham disbanded the Dead Horses after 2010's relentlessly dark Junky Star — Fear and Saturday Night's spirited journey combines Rolling Stones-type swagger on tunes like "Top Shelf Drug" with jubilant Texas Tornados-styled Tejano on "Adventures of You and Me" and shuffling country on the autobiographical opener "Nobody Knows My Trouble." The songs, written while Bingham secluded himself in an Airstream trailer in the California mountains, are often stripped down and spare, keeping the focus on the singer's weatherbeaten rasp.

Bingham recorded the album over the course of a month at producer Jim Scott's (Wilco, Tom Petty) studio in Santa Clarita, California. "He's got fucking drums, guitars, motorcycles and shit that he's been collecting in there for 30 years," Bingham says. "It's like an adult playground. He's got a bar in there and pinball machines, and I was like, 'This is fucking great.'" His favorite distraction? A Dolly Parton pinball machine, circa the 9-to-5 era. (Bingham is a superfan of the country legend — more on her later.)

Most people's introduction to Bingham was "The Weary Kind," the theme to the 2009 film Crazy Heart, that he penned with T Bone Burnett. The tune, performed by Jeff Bridges in the movie, snagged the pair the 2010 Academy Award for Best Original Song.

That shiny hardware didn't change Bingham's life much other than bringing more people in to see his live show. Instead of capitalizing on his sudden fame, he chafed at the spotlight and the intrusion of handlers and hangers-on such attention brings. For him, ever since he released his first major label album, 2007's Mescalito, it's all been about control. While he has nothing but good things to say about his former record company, Lost Highway (they parted ways before the release of Tomorrowland), the Universal Music Group-owned label "still had to play by the rules of the big guys [who] didn't even really know who I was or cared."

Just before his new album's arrival, Bingham talked to Rolling Stone Country about moving past his parents' death, love's restorative power, what kind of tattoo he hopes his child never gets and where he keeps his Oscar.

It's all relative, but you sound positively ecstatic on this album, especially compared to Tomorrowland. How did it feel to come out the other side?

Great. It was just a really heavy time, and I was like, "Fuck, I have got to make it out of this." I was in a bad place, but it was just part of life. It was a time in my life where I had some really serious stuff happen to me. I still remained optimistic throughout it, but it was just like, "Man, I have been digging this hole and digging this hole, and I have not found China yet. If somebody doesn't drop the rope, I can't get back out, so I've got to dig my way out of this motherfucker."

What was your frame of mind when writing this album? It is, at times, unabashedly romantic.

Marriage was the one thing that helped pull me through a lot of that stuff. That's been the one thing in my life that's been so stable. So [the album is about] Anna, the baby and life ahead of me. It's about stuff that's going on — good stuff. The stuff with my parents, that was all Tomorrowland. I had to deal with all that. I even went and talked to a therapist and got professional help, and it really did help a lot. 

There are still some dark clouds here, but most songs have silver linings. Were you afraid that you would sound like a Hallmark card on any of the tracks?

No, I was stoked about it, because I've got to get out there and play those songs every night, too. That was the most miserable tour after that last record. I was like, "God, somebody just shoot me."
"Broken Heart Tattoos" is a letter to your child, but you wrote it before you found out your wife was pregnant, right?

Over the past couple of years, we'd been talking [about] if we wanted to have kids or not. We had it in our minds. You start thinking about, "Wow, what would I have to say to my kid if I had one?" And that was kind of how the song began. Then, a few months later, [Anna] told me she was pregnant, so it was like, all right, I got that one down.

When your child gets his or her first tattoo, what do you want it to be?

Something that's spelled correctly. No cartoon animals. Something that at least has some kind of a meaning.

Your parents were not the best role models in some ways, but what are some qualities that you'd like to pass on to your child from them?

My parents were good people. They got into a bad spot and didn't know how to get themselves out of it. But I remember my mom being super witty and fun, and her personality was just amazing. My dad, as well. He would give anybody he knew the shirt off his back. He was always a hard worker, and it was just, unfortunately, the road of drugs and alcohol, and the mix of depression, and all this other stuff they were going through. They couldn't find their way out of that.

You wrote this album in an Airstream in the mountains. You don't like hanging out in a regular studio to write, do you?

I can't stand studios. When I started playing, I kind of lived out of my truck. I had a camper set on the back, and I'd just disappear out in the desert, or find these real desolate places and set up camp for a while and hang out. I still miss parts of that, when I was just rambling around out there.

Do you need solitude to write?

Yeah. I have to be alone to really reflect on what's been happening in my life. I've never really been able to sit down with pen and paper and just formulate a song, or craft a song about it. You know, okay, I'm going to write a song about a baseball player. I've never been able to do that.

How long did you rent the Airstream for?

A couple of weeks at a time. I'd been looking for a cabin where I could lock myself away and write for a few weeks, and Anna actually found it on Airbnb. . .This guy had, like, 50 or 60 acres in the mountains, and he's restored these two old Airstream trailers from the Fifties and rents them out. You felt you were in Mexico, or something. I'd get up in the mornings and go surf, and then go back and just write all day and night. Whenever I got stuck, I would go for hikes and just stomp around in the mountains. There were mule deer and coyotes everywhere. It was great.

What was the first song you wrote for the album?

"Nobody Knows My Trouble." I spent about two days up there before I could write anything. It felt like forever. Nothing was happening, and then, finally, I took some whiskey up there, and I was, like, fuck it, I'm just going to have a few drinks. I got about half drunk up there and about 1:30 in the morning, I grabbed the guitar and that song just came out in about 10 minutes.

You've worked with Jim Scott, T Bone Burnett and Marc Ford. Is there anyone else you'd love to have produce you?

[The Black Keys'] Dan Auerbach. That record he did with Dr. John, I love that record. I've heard some other stuff that he's done that I really like. The guy from Spoon, [Jim Eno], and also the guy from Radiohead that produces and did There Will Be Blood, [Jonny Greenwood]. Jeff Tweedy's another guy that I'd really like to work with.

Let's reverse it. Is there a legend you'd love to produce or work with like how Jack White worked with Loretta Lynn?

If I could write a song with anybody, it would be Dolly Parton. I think she's a fantastic songwriter. She's a very smart, talented woman. "I Will Always Love You" is one of the best songs ever written.

The album closes with "Gun Fightin' Man," which sounds like something straight out of a spaghetti western.

It's a really old song that I've had for a while. I've always loved those old gunfighter movies, and Gunsmoke. I wanted to record that song, but I didn't want to send out the wrong message about gun violence and things like that. I believe in owning guns and everything, and I've grown up on ranches and always had a rifle in the truck, but I don't know if having an AK-47 in my house is something that I need, or that some people should need.

Do you ever pick up your Oscar, or does that time seem like another life to you?

I don't even know where it is right now, to be honest with you. . .Well, I do know, because we're having some construction on our house. We had to move out for a few months. But I don't get attached to things very easy, just moving around growing up, I had stuff taken away from me so much that I got to where I just didn't get attached to stuff anymore.

That seems almost fitting given how future-focused you seem to be on the album, especially on its penultimate track, "Hands of Time," which is about moving in only one direction: forward.

Yeah. Quit looking in the rearview mirror and just start looking out the windshield.


Read more: http://www.rollingstone.com/music/features/fear-and-saturday-night-how-ryan-bingham-defeated-darkness-on-surprising-new-lp-20150120#ixzz3SgUGaC5w
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Tuesday, August 31, 2010

On a Lost Highway

FANFAIR

Ryan Bingham’s crazy heart opens up.


By Lisa Robinson
Photograph by Bruce Weber
http://www.vanityfair.com/
September 2010


Ryan Bingham won an Academy Award with T Bone Burnett for their song “The Weary Kind,” from last year’s film Crazy Heart. This month, the singer-songwriter, photographed here in Miami, releases a new album.

What’s life like after winning an Oscar?

Unlike some whose careers or marriages fall apart, Ryan Bingham says things are pretty much the same since he and T Bone Burnett won for best song (“The Weary Kind,” from Crazy Heart). Here, the singer-songwriter and former rodeo bull rider talks about that award, life on the road, and his new album, the T Bone Burnett—produced Junky Star, out this month.

LISA ROBINSON: Were you really a rodeo bull rider?

RYAN BINGHAM: I grew up in New Mexico and Texas doing that. My uncle rode bulls and my grandfather was a rancher; junior rodeos were like Little League in our family.

L.R. You get categorized as ‘country,’ but your music really sounds more like Gram Parsons—style rock and roll.

R.B. We always felt we were a rock and roll band. People thought we were a country band because I wore a cowboy hat, and [while] I was raised on Willie and Waylon—and that’s a lot of where my roots are—the Stones and Zeppelin are in there, too. A lot of times people don’t listen to your music; they just see what you’re wearing and put a stamp on it. Then they come to our shows, see us play live, and it’s a whole different deal.

L.R. What was the sound you and T Bone were going for on your new album?

R.B. Just the same sound as before with my band, the Dead Horses. We spent a week working up the songs, played all of them in T Bone’s living room, and he told us to record [everything] exactly the way we played them for him. It was all recorded live; most of the songs were done in one or two takes.

L.R. The album is called Junky Star, but you don’t mean ‘junky’ as in drug addict, do you?

R.B. No, it’s like junkyard; a lot of these songs sound like they’ve been beat up for a long time. The album cover picture is a wrecked-out plane with the wings broken off; it looks like it’s flown a million miles, but there’s something special about it.

L.R. So, how did the movie and the Oscar change your life?

R.B. It’s still been life; no change really around the house or in my world. But without that movie, the kind of music we play would never have reached that broad an audience.

L.R. In Crazy Heart, you and your band perform in the bowling-alley scene. How authentic was that?

R.B. We’re a bowling-alley band. That’s what I told the director when he asked us about doing it. We’ve played bowling alleys more times than I want to count.

L.R. What’s the worst place you ever played?

R.B. We played a gig somewhere in Mississippi, in a shitty motel lounge where they had a racetrack set up and they were racing rats. In the bar. Ryan Bingham and Mice Races.

L.R. From there to wearing an Alexander McQueen tuxedo onstage at the Kodak Theatre. Did you keep the tuxedo?

R.B. No, I didn’t get to keep it. But I really don’t know where I’d wear it. Maybe for the mice races—next year.

STYLED BY DEBORAH WATSON; HAIR PRODUCTS BY FRƉDƉRIC FEKKAI; HAIR BY DIDIER MALIGE; GROOMING BY GUCCI WESTMAN; FOR DETAILS, GO TO VF.COM/CREDITS. BINGHAM WEARS A SHIRT AND JEANS BY SIMON SPURR.

Album Reviews: Ryan Bingham - 'Junky Star'

Pop & Hiss
The L.A. Times music blog
http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/music_blog/
August 30, 2010 10:55 pm

In "Strange Feelin’ in the Air," a crooked guitar riff stalks, offering a feeling of apprehension as sure as the shifty outsider bursting through the swinging doors of the townie saloon. It’s pure Ryan Bingham, a conjurer of atmosphere, a gift that he put to good use for "The Weary Kind," his Oscar-winning song featured in "Crazy Heart."

The Topanga Canyon troubadour wrote the movie’s theme with roots maestro T Bone Burnett, who also lends his production skills to "Junky Star," Bingham’s third album of dirty-fingernail Americana. Unlike Bingham’s last outing, "Roadhouse Sun," in which his native windswept Texas dominated the proceedings, California creeps up in the margins. In the ragged, heartfelt "Depression," the Golden State might be an escape from a wasteland, but it’s not that simple; on the title track, he’s "sleeping on the Santa Monica Pier, with the junkies and the stars."

Whatever specter California casts, thank heavens it doesn’t add polish. Bingham’s voice still sounds like a gut-shot animal dragging itself across the road. It can bend toward a moment of relief, like when he sings "Hallelujah," or it can fold into sorrow, as it does on "Yesterday’s Blues." Burnett wisely stands back and lets Bingham, the former bull rider, bleed or buck in the spotlight.

The only quality that’s sorely missed on "Junky Star" is Bingham’s sense of adventure. There’s nothing on here that approaches the meltdown of "Change Is" or the spitfire of "Hey Hey Hurray" on "Roadhouse Sun." Bingham, no stranger now to the Hollywood circuit, might be in a new land but he shouldn’t forget his pioneer spirit.

-- Margaret Wappler

Ryan Bingham

"Junky Star"

Lost Highway

Three stars (Out of four)



Junky Star – 2010 (Lost Highway)
Ryan Bingham


Reviewed by Michael Berick
http://www.countrystandardtime.com/
August 31, 2010

Ryan Bingham's name recognition took a quantum leap this year after his Academy Award win for Best Original Song with "The Weary Kind". But fear not, the Texas troubadour hasn't gone Hollywood on his marvelous new album. There isn't a stylistic overhaul or big-name guests. The only slight change for his third full length is that T Bone Burnett replaced Marc Ford in the producer's chair. However, Burnett also co-helmed the "Crazy Heart" soundtrack, and their raw, organic styles are quite simpatico.

If there is a Hollywood influence, it's in Bingham's songwriting. His hard-lived tales resemble Western noir stories. The lead-off track," The Poet", establishes the cinematic atmosphere. A lonesome harmonica sets the stage for a colorful, yet dark-hued, story where "senoritas lose it to mariachi music" and "the poet writes his songs in blood." It's as if Springsteen had done "Nebraska" under the influence of Sam Peckinpaugh.

Violence and guns play an important role in several other tunes. The title track starts off with "a man came to shake my hand and rob me of my farm/I shot him dead, hung my head and drove off in his car." The man then heads off to the squalid life among the "junkies and the stars" at the Santa Monica Pier. In "Hallelujah", a man thinks he recognizes someone as an old friend, only to be shot dead by this impoverished, desperate man, with the now dead man realizing that there is no real salvation, and "hallelujah is just a song."

Death also figures prominently in "Hard Worn Trail", where a man is left for dead and the closer "All Choked Up Again", in which a man admits "I think I just killed a man, think it was my old man." The turmoil in the first tune is evocatively accentuated by the musical arrangement, which offers dramatic use of a slide guitar and percussion. Burnett guests in tremolo guitar on the latter tune, adding a haunting quality to the narrative.

While Bingham works well in simple musical settings, Burnett does a fine job of utilizing Bingham's road-tested band, The Dead Horses (there's the image of death again). The sinister guitar line snakes through "Strange Feelin' In The Air", and "Hallelujah" also uses guitars (building from a quite acoustic to noisier electric) to reflect the song's dramatics. The band works up some roadhouse grooves too on "The Wandering" and "Direction Of The Wind", which provide some welcome change of musical pace. In "The Wandering", Bingham also stretches out his older-than-his-years, nicotine and whiskey voice into a twangier croon.

Bingham does offer a few rays of lights amidst his generally dark narratives. Despite its title, Depression actually is a song about the power of love - although set against these grim economic times. Bingham powerfully expresses here, on one of the standout efforts, how love can pull someone through the darkest of times. Similarly, in "Yesterday's Blues", he movingly conveys how love can conquer the bad times of someone's past.

Although he's not covering particularly new territory here, Bingham does refine what he does best - creating indelible, down-to-the-bone tales of souls lost or struggled to survive - that he has made him one of Americana's finest young songwriters.



Ryan Bingham and the Dead Horses' 'Junky Star' review: Has the voice, the soul, but not the music

By Jim Farber
http://www.nydailynews.com/entertainment/
Tuesday, August 31st 2010, 4:00 AM


Ryan Bingham's 'Junky Star,' his follow-up to the Oscar-winning 'Crazy Heart,' has the right voice but the music is not quite up to snuff.

Ryan Bingham seems like such a well-groomed and promising young man. Articulate, handsome and, earnest, Bingham has also been richly rewarded of late, having bagged both an Oscar and a Golden Globe for co-writing "The Weary Kind" for Jeff Bridges' character in "Crazy Heart."

But Bingham's voice tells a rougher story. It's all whisky and heartache, desperation and age. Blessed with a classic rasp, 29-year-old Bingham wheezes meaningfully through his songs, exhaling just enough consequence and grit to suggest a junior Steve Earle or a cub Waylon Jennings.

Those qualities gave Bingham's first two albums on the alterna-country label Lost Highway credibility and heart. If anything, they're on even rawer display on the new, "Junky Star." The songs seem looser, less formal and, as a consequence, not as catchy or easily embraced.

Clearly, Bingham hasn't tried to slick up his sound in the slightest since his breakthrough. Once again he worked with Americana producer T-Bone Burnett, who frayed the sound even further, letting Bingham's crinkly vocals cackle around flintier guitar chords.

The scenarios of the songs delve into the dark side as well. "Hallelujah" (not the Leonard Cohen song, thank God), features a dead man as its main character. Murdered near the song's start, he narrates the rest as a ghost caught between worlds.

In "All Choked Up Again," the narrator kills his father then tears himself apart. "Everyday I seem to dig a little deeper into nothing that is left behind," he broods.

Not that the songs lack a hint of redemption. There's a lot of love-conquering-all-here, which tips off Bingham's biggest problem: his debt to cliche. The heroin addicts who nod through two key tracks, the poet who wanders through "shelters and shambles," come off more as self-glorifying archetypes than gnarly individuals.

The ambling nature of the music doesn't help. As compositions, the songs don't feel complete, which makes the whole package seem hollow.

Bingham's romantic view of beautiful losers - unredeemed by humor or self-awareness - plays into a long-running American stereotype: the seen-it-all gunslinger, hobbled but hopeful.

Bingham may have the voice of withered knowing down. But without enough compelling music to support it, his album ends up seeming like a movie version of a life rather than the real thing.

jfarber@nydailynews.com


Album review: Ryan Bingham's new album 'Junky Star' shines

By Melinda Newman
http://www.hitfix.com/blogs/the-beat-goes-on/
August 30, 2010


Ryan Bingham would seemingly have every reason to be happy after traveling from relative mainstream obscurity to nabbing the best original song Oscar for “The Weary Kind” from “Crazy Heart.”

However, he’s keeping his glee to himself. There is no evidence of celebration or his growing celebrity on “Junky Star,” his third album with the Dead Horses. The characters who populate the largely acoustic “Junky Star” are so downtrodden, they make “Crazy Heart’s” desolate Bad Blake seem as successful as a Fortune 500 CEO.

These protagonists aren’t diamonds in the rough. They are, and always will be, chunks of coal and it is to Bingham’s credit that he sees the tarnished beauty amid the decay.

Bingham’s roughnecks may not have shot a man in Reno just to watch him die, but they create their own murderer’s row, in some cases killing strangers, in others, killing kin. They’ve been marginalized by the economy and by their own misdeeds and no one notices when they’re no longer there. If they aren’t physically dying, as they are on “Hallelujah” or “All Choked Up Again,” they are spiritually and morally.

The few flickers of hope are still muted in desperation. On “Depression” and “Yesterday’s Blues,” love is the only life raft in very choppy waters.

The stripped down production, handled nimbly by T-Bone Burnett (with whom Bingham worked on “Crazy Heart”) allows the songs to be front and center. Recorded solely with the Dead Horses--drummer Matthew Smith, bassist Elijah Ford and guitarist Corby Schaub-- and no outside musicians, the album feels insular and slightly claustrophobic, just like the characters. Everyone is going nowhere fast, but they’re in no hurry to get there. Bingham’s weatherbeaten vocals--he’s 29, but he sounds like he’s 65--add to the high lonesome feel. His growl can be a slap or a caress.

Bingham isn’t doing anything that Johnny Cash, Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Steve Earle and Bruce Springsteen haven’t done before, but that he can even stand comfortably within their shadows here is an accomplishment worth celebrating.

Friday, January 15, 2010

Film Reviews: 'Crazy Heart'

A Country Crooner Whose Flight Is Now Free Fall

By A. O. SCOTT
The New York Times
http://www.nytimes.com/
December 16, 2009
Correction Appended

“Crazy Heart,” written and directed by Scott Cooper, is a small movie perfectly scaled to the big performance at its center. It offers some picturesque views of out-of-the-way parts of the American West, but the dominant feature of its landscape is Bad Blake, a wayward, aging country singer played by Jeff Bridges.


Lorey Sebastian/20th Century Fox

Jeff Bridges and Maggie Gyllenhaal in “Crazy Heart.”


Those last four words should be sufficient recommendation. Some of Mr. Bridges’s peers may have burned more intensely in their prime, but very few American actors over the past 35 years have flickered and smoldered with such craft and resilience. Neither blandly likable nor operatically emotional, this actor has a sly kind of charisma and a casual intelligence. You suspect that he may be smarter than some of the characters he plays — the lounge musician in “The Fabulous Baker Boys,” the deadbeat bowler in “The Big Lebowski,” the egotistical author in “The Door in the Floor,” to take just a few examples — but also that he knows every corner and shadow of each one’s mind.

Unlike Mr. Bridges, Bad, who is 57, seems to be running on the last fumes of his talent. He drives from one gig to another in a battered truck, playing bowling alleys and bars with local pickup bands and sleeping in less-than-deluxe accommodations. He smokes and drinks as if trying to settle a long-ago bet between his liver and his lungs about which he would destroy first. The chorus to his signature song (one of several written especially for Mr. Bridges) observes that “falling feels like flying, for a little while.” That time has long since passed for Bad, who is scraping the bottom and trying not to complain too much about it (except when he can get his agent on the phone).

Drinking, cheating, love gone wrong — a lot of country music expresses the weary stoicism of self-inflicted defeat. Loss and abjection are two of the chords that define the genre. A third is redemption, which has also been a theme of modest, regionally inflected American independent cinema for quite some time. So even before Maggie Gyllenhaal shows up as Jean, a New Mexico journalist with a cute young son and some disappointments of her own, you can be pretty sure that you’re in for yet another drama of second chances and late-breaking epiphanies.

But no one ever put on a country record in search of novelty or wild surprise. What you seek in those songs is honest feeling and musical skill. Even in decline, Bad has both of those things, and enough professionalism to keep complete self-destruction at bay. Performing in front of a small, appreciative crowd in Colorado, he strikes up an old hit and then hands the song off to the band so he can run offstage and vomit in the parking lot, returning just in time to sing the final chorus and make eye contact with the groupie he’ll wake up with the next morning.

What does Jean see in this wreck? Mr. Bridges, settling into Mr. Cooper’s understated script as if he’d written it himself, makes the answer both obvious and a little enigmatic. There is a playboy’s charm and an old-fashioned Southern courtliness half-hidden behind the weariness, the anger at squandered possibilities, the flabby gut and the unkempt beard. This fellow may be bad, but he’s also dignified.

Bad’s own songs express this tension, as do other selections on the soundtrack (overseen by T Bone Burnett), which help to establish this fictional musician’s place in the actual musical universe. His main connection to the current country scene is Tommy Sweet (Colin Farrell), a former protĆ©gĆ© who has hit the big time and whose support Bad both desperately wants and is sometimes too proud to accept. Tommy is part of a slick new breed that pays respect to the stalwarts of the past (as any good country singer must), but whose smoothness nonetheless gets under the skin of his sandpapery former mentor.

In his first interview with Jean, Bad pays the expected homage to precursors like Hank Williams and Lefty Frizzell, but really he belongs in more recent, somewhat rougher company. Bad’s home — when he’s there — is in Houston, and the voices that accompany his comings and goings are mostly drawn from the outlaws and renegades associated with Texas in the era of his early manhood. You hear songs by Townes van Zandt and Waylon Jennings, and you may also think of Willie Nelson and some others. As for Mr. Bridges: he can’t help it if he looks like Kris Kristofferson and sounds a little like David Allan Coe.

When Robert Duvall (a producer of “Crazy Heart”) turns up as one of Bad’s old friends, you might also remember Mac Sledge, the Bad Blake figure he played in Bruce Beresford’s 1983 film, “Tender Mercies.” Mr. Cooper’s movie owes an obvious debt to that one, but there can never be too many songs about drinking, loving and feeling bad, and there is always room for another version of that old song about the guy who messed it all up and kept on going. Especially when that guy can play the tune as truly and as well as Mr. Bridges.

“Crazy Heart” is rated R. (Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian.) Drinking, smoking, sex and swearing. If that ain’t country ...

CRAZY HEART

Opens on Wednesday in New York and Los Angeles.

Directed by Scott Cooper; written by Mr. Cooper, based on the novel by Thomas Cobb; director of photography, Barry Markowitz; edited by John Axelrad; music by Stephen Bruton and T Bone Burnett; production designer, Waldemar Kalinowski; produced by Mr. Cooper, Robert Duvall, Rob Carliner, Judy Cairo and Mr. Burnett; released by Fox Searchlight Pictures. Running time: 1 hour 51 minutes.

WITH: Jeff Bridges (Bad Blake), Maggie Gyllenhaal (Jean Craddock), Robert Duvall (Wayne), Tom Bower (Bill Wilson), James Keane (Manager), Colin Farrell (Tommy Sweet), William Marquez (Doctor), Ryan Bingham (Tony) and Paul Herman (Jack Greene).

Correction: December 31, 2009

A film review on Dec. 16 about “Crazy Heart” referred incorrectly to the crediting of the actor Colin Farrell, who plays the character Tommy Sweet. While he was not credited in the copy of the film seen by the reviewer, he is in fact given a credit in the movie, as noted in the listing of credits that accompanied the review.

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Country-tuned ‘Crazy’ is all art

By Kyle Smith
New York Post
http://www.nypost.com/
December 16, 2009

Brokedown country singer tries to crawl out of the bottle and into the arms of a good woman. Supporting figures: cute kid and younger, handsomer rival singer.

“Crazy Heart” — “Tender Mercies” minus the Christianity, “The Wrestler” on bourbon instead of steroids — can’t possibly deserve your close attention. Yet it does, with distilled honky-tonk poetry and generous good humor. It’s one of the year’s best, most deeply felt films.

The first feature from director Scott Cooper, who also wrote the script based on a novel by Thomas Cobb, is a showcase for Jeff Bridges, who provides the year’s signature performance by a lead actor.

Bridges fully inhabits singer Bad Blake, from his wrecked liver to his tornado hair. His breath is combustible, his hygiene lamentable, his future brief. The '78 Suburban he drives around is livelier than he is. “I used to be somebody,” he sings in a desperation gig at a bowling alley. “But now I am somebody else.”

The departed somebody was a hit songwriter now forgotten by the public if not by such fans as a former student and current top star, Tommy Sweet (Colin Farrell, who must have been tempted to dial up the yee-hawing but doesn’t). The somebody else has roughly as many ex-wives as fans, and more empty bottles than either. Also there’s a grown son, somewhere. Bad doesn’t know him, and never will.

Jean (Maggie Gyllenhaal) is a journalist with a small son of her own. She won’t let him be raised by another whiskey slave, but even so she finds herself leaning in to get a closer look at what’s flickering inside Bad — dying talent, maybe, unless it’s something else. She wants to know where all his songs come from (“Life, unfortunately,” says Bad, with woeful authority). He wants to talk about how she makes the room around her feel ashamed of itself.

Gyllenhaal, though she is essentially the romantic version of a straight man, eases comfortably into the role instead of showing us how hard she’s working at it, with a sparkle in her eyes that is all the movie needs to keep Bad trying to be good. Uncertainly, she even allows the geezer to baby-sit her child for a day. What might the planned activities be? “Man stuff!” he says, and the boy agrees. “Man stuff!”

Such found moments — so elegant and mature is the screenplay that it usually doesn’t seem to have been written at all — make for genuine laughs, just as the bleak interludes involve recognizable, simple, ruinous mistakes (in the car, at the mall). Directing a picture like this one requires precision and dedication. The game is finished if we ever get the sense that our chain is being yanked, that we’re being sold a story instead of told one. But thanks to evocative settings, compassionate acting (including a brief but warm, funny appearance by Robert Duvall) and the high-caliber country songs written for the film, “Crazy Heart” is humbly radiant, a small thing gracefully done.

kyle.smith@nypost.com


Crazy Heart

BY ROGER EBERT
http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/frontpage
December 23, 2009

Some actors are blessed. Jeff Bridges is one of them. Ever since his breakthrough role in "The Last Picture Show" in 1971, he has, seemingly without effort, created a series of characters who we simply believe, even the alien "Starman." He doesn't do this with mannerisms but with their exclusion; his acting is as clear as running water. Look at him playing Bad Blake in "Crazy Heart." The notion of a broke-down, boozy country singer is an archetype in pop culture. We've seen this story before. The difference is, Bad Blake makes us believe it happened to him.

That's acting. There's a line of dialogue in the movie that I jotted down at the time, and it's been cited by several critics. Bad Blake is being interviewed in his shabby motel room by Jean Craddock (Maggie Gyllenhaal), a newspaper reporter. She's taking him, gently, to places he doesn't want to go. He's been interviewed about the subject too many times. He doesn't say that. He says, "I want to talk about how bad you make this room look."

It's such a good line I can hardly believe I've never heard it before. Bad Blake perhaps knows it sounds like something out of an old movie. It's also the kind of line written by a singer-songwriter, the masking of emotion by ironic displacement, the indirect apology for seedy circumstances. She blushes. I can't think of a better way for the movie to get to where it has to go next. No shy apologies. No cynicism. Just that he wrote a great line of a country song, and it was for her.

BEVERLY HILLS, CA - DECEMBER 08: Actor Robert Duvall, actress Maggie Gyllenhaal, actor Scott Cooper, actor Jeff Bridges and actor Ryan Bingham arrive at the premiere of Fox Searchlight's 'Crazy Heat' on December 8, 2009 in Beverly Hills, California.

Bridges, Gyllenhaal and Scott Cooper, the first-time writer-director, find that note all through the movie. It's like a country-western cliche happening for the first time. Bridges doesn't play drunk or hung over or newly in love in the ways we're accustomed to. It's like Bad has lived so long and been through so much that he's too worn out to add any spin to exactly the way he feels.

Bad Blake was a star once, years ago. He has lyrics that go, "I used to be somebody, but now I'm somebody else." His loyal manager (James Keane) once booked him in top venues. As "Crazy Heart" opens, Bad is pulling up to a bowling alley. "It's this year's 'The Wrestler,' " one of my colleagues observed after the screening. Yes. Bad still has a few loyal fans, but you get the feeling they've followed him to the bottom. He has a son he's lost touch with and hasn't written a good song in a long time. In the old days, he toured with a kid named Tommy Sweet (Colin Farrell). Now Tommy is a big star, but contrary to the conventions of such stories, hasn't forgotten his old teacher and remains loyal.

Maybe, we're thinking, with the love of a good woman Bad could turn it around. It's not that simple in "Crazy Heart." Jean is a good woman, but can she afford to love this wreck 25 years older than she is? Certainly not if he continues to drink, and maybe not in any case. And it's not easy for Bad to stop drinking; he's descended below his bottom.

How does Bridges do this without making the character some sort of pitiful and self-pitying basket case? The presence of Robert Duvall here, playing his old friend and acting as one of the producers of this movie, is a reminder of Duvall's own "Tender Mercies" (1983), another great film about a has-been country singer and a good woman (Tess Harper). It's a measure of Bridges, Duvall, Gyllenhaal and Harper that they create completely different characters.

One of the ways the movie might have gone wrong is if the singing and the songs hadn't sounded right. They do. Bridges has an easy, sandpapery voice that sounds as if it's been through some good songs and good whiskey, and the film's original songs are by T-Bone Burnett and Stephen Bruton (who died of cancer in May at Burnett's home). Bridges conveys the difficult feelings of a singer keeping his dogged pride while performing in a bowling alley.

The movie knows more about alcoholism than many films do, and has more of that wisdom onscreen, not least from the Duvall character. Gyllenhaal's character, too, is not an enabler or an alibi artist, but a woman who feels with her mind as well as her heart. Watch her as she and Bridges find the same level of mutual confidence for their characters. One of the reasons we trust the film is that neither Bad nor Jean is acting out illusions. Colin Farrell, too, is on the same page. We understand why he stays loyal, to the degree that he can. This is a rare story that knows people don't always forget those who helped them on the way up.

Jeff Bridges is a virtual certainty to win his first Oscar, after four nominations. The movie was once set for 2010 release (and before that, I hear, was going straight to cable). The more people saw it, the more they were convinced this was a great performance. Fox Searchlight stepped in, bought the rights and screened it extensively in December for critics' groups, who all but unanimously voted for Bridges as the year's best actor. We're good for something.

Cast & Credits

Bad Blake- Jeff Bridges
Jean- Maggie Gyllenhaal
Wayne- Robert Duvall
Tommy Sweet- Colin Farrell
Manager- James Keane

Fox Searchlight presents a film written and directed by Scott Cooper. Based on the novel by Thomas Cobb. Running time: 112 minutes. Rated R (for language and brief sexuality).


Hank Thompson: 'Crazy Heart's' real-life Bad Blake

Pop & Hiss
The L.A. Times music blog
December 28, 2009 3:05 pm

Jeff Bridges' star turn in "Crazy Heart" as downtrodden country music legend Bad Blake has been earning the veteran actor some of the most glowing reviews of his career, from writers who have invoked the names of many real-life musicians in their assessments of Bridges' portrayal of the fictional Blake.

"Peering into that face, you'd swear it's Kris Kristofferson," Mary Pols wrote in Time magazine. Rolling Stone's Peter Travers suggested that "Bad is an outlaw combo of Waylon Jennings and Merle Haggard."

And in the New York Times’ review, A.O. Scott noted that during the film, "You hear songs by Townes van Zandt and Waylon Jennings, and you may also think of Willie Nelson and some others. As for Mr. Bridges: He can't help it if he looks like Kris Kristofferson and sounds a little like David Allan Coe."

Few, however, have zeroed in on the Country Music Hall of Fame member who actually inspired the creation of Bad Blake in Thomas Cobb's 1987 novel: Hank Thompson.

"I used to be a country music writer," Cobb told me after flying out from his home in Rhode Island to attend the film's star-studded premiere in Beverly Hills. "This was in Houston, and I went to cover a show one night -- it was an arena show with Conway Twitty, and Hank Thompson opened for him."
Thompson was best known for his 1952 hit "The Wild Side of Life," which topped the country chart for 15 weeks, and had a remarkably long career, placing records on the country charts in five decades, from 1948 to 1983. He toured tirelessly, upwards of 200 to 250 shows a year until shortly before he died at age 82 in 2007.

For that early-'80s show with Twitty in Houston, Cobb recalled, "He was backed that night by a local band that I knew had been called that morning and asked 'Do you want to back Hank Thompson tonight?' I thought, 'What a horrible thing: that someone of Hank Thompson’s stature was playing with a pickup band, and a band that didn't even know they were backing him until that morning. That was part of it."

At the time, Cobb was working on his doctorate in creative writing, and wrote up the incident for one of his classes. "I had to have a story ready the next day for a workshop, when I put on a new John Anderson record and heard the song 'Would You Catch a Falling Star'."

That song, written by Bobby Braddock, certainly evokes the character that Bridges plays onscreen:

He had a silver plated bus and a million country fans
And now there's just a few of us, and he drives a little van
And they were beating down his door, the lovely women, left and right
And now he's on the hardwood floor, a-wonderin' where he'll spend the night

Would you catch a fallin' star before he crashes to the ground?
Don't you know how people are, nobody loves you when you're down
Pick me up and take me home, and I'll bring my old guitar
Sing a golden oldie song, if you'll catch a fallin' star.

With that image swirling in his mind, Cobb said, "I started thinking of Hank Thompson, sat down and wrote what was essentially first chapter of the book.

"I had interviewed Hank Williams Jr., Hoyt Axton, Lacy J. Dalton and George Strait, when he was first starting out," Cobb said. "I spent fair amount of time on their buses -- when they were parked, so I had a really good idea of what the life was about. … It took me eight months to write, writing about three pages a night. Nothing has ever come that easily again. It was one of those little bits of grace."

The book, however, wasn't a big hit, and went out of print not long after it was published. The movie rights had been optioned several times, though nothing ever materialized. When screenwriter-director Scott Cooper approached Cobb about four years ago to take another shot at turning it into a movie, the author didn’t think much about, much less that it would quickly land two Golden Globe nominations and much talk about possible Academy Award nods.

"It's been a miraculous little film," Cobb said. "Scott’s fond of saying that if it had taken one more year, he never would have gotten it made. He got financing right before Lehman Brothers [investment bank] crash. There's been all this serendipity, these wonderful accidents, with this person getting attached, then that person. I frankly after 22 years never really expected to see this film made"

--Randy Lewis

Top photo: Jeff Bridges as Bad Blake in "Crazy Heart." Credit: Lorey Sebastian/Fox Searchlight. Second photo: Country singer Hank Thompson. Credit: File

Today's Tune: Ryan Bingham - The Weary Kind (Live)

(Click on title to play video)

Your hearts on the loose
You rolled them sevens with nothing lose
And this aint no place for the weary kind
You called all your shots
Shooting 8 ball at the corner truck stop
Somehow this dont feel like home anymore

And this aint no place for the weary kind
And this aint no place to lose your mind
And this aint no place to fall behind
Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try

Your body aches
Playing your guitar and sweating out the hate
The days and the nights all feel the same
Whiskey has been a thorn in your side
and it doesnt forget
the highway that calls for your heart inside

And this aint no place for the weary kind
And this aint no place to lose your mind
And this aint no place to fall behind
Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try

Your lovers wont kiss
Its too damn far from your fingertips
You are the man that ruined her world

Your hearts on the loose
You rolled them sevens with nothing lose
And this aint no place for the weary kind

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Music Review: Joe Ely & Joel Guzman - Live Cactus!

Joe Ely and Joel Guzman
Live Cactus!

(Rack 'Em)
US release date: 11 March 2008
UK release date: 31 March 2008

by Michael Keefe
http://www.popmatters.com/
May 6, 2008

You decided to read this review because you’re either unfamiliar with the music of Joe Ely and thought you might get hip to something new or you already have a good idea of what you have to look forward to and just want to know if Ely’s new album is another good one or another great one. If you’re a novice to the sounds of this great Texas singer-songwriter, then check out my summary of his career in my PopMatters review of his 2007 studio album Happy Songs From Rattlesnake Gulch.

Let me be honest with you, though. Ely’s latest, a collaboration with accordionist Joe Guzman called Live Cactus!, isn’t really intended for first-time listeners. Introducing yourself to Ely with an album as intimate as this is like barging in on a small dinner party uninvited. There are certain things you’re supposed to know in advance. If the words “Letter to Laredo” mean nothing to you, well, mister, you don’t know Joe. That is but one of the 13 song titles from Live Cactus!, and most of the cuts are classics.

Whether an Ely fan or not, you could be forgiven for not knowing the name Joel Guzman. You’ve may have heard Mr. Guzman before, though. He too is a veteran of the Texas music scene, playing accordion and keyboards primarily with Latino acts during the ‘90s, including Mazz and legendary tejano master Flaco Jimenez. In 1998, he and Ely joined forces twice: as members of the super-group Los Super Seven and on Ely’s Twistin’ in the Wind album.


Joe Ely

After a decade of working together, you would expect the two men behind Live Cactus! to have developed great musical chemistry, and you’d be right. Stripped, as they are here, of the steady backbone of a rhythm section, Ely and Guzman are left with just acoustic guitar, accordion, and a pair of human voices. Not that this would intimidate a couple of pros. Ely and Guzman flourish in this environment, clearly capable of drawing a live crowd into their world. Even during a slow and spare number like the 30-year-old “Because of the Wind”, Ely’s guitar and Guzman’s accordion seem to operate as one infallible organism. The same holds true on Randy Banks’ beautiful “Where Is My Love,” a song Ely captured with a full band on 1990’s Live at Liberty Lunch.

Despite the spare instrumentation, Live Cactus! isn’t all slow songs and a wistful mood. Ely and Guzman pick up the pace with Rattlesnake Gulch‘s “Miss Bonnie and Mr. Clyde”, a raucous retelling of that classic tale of doomed love. “All Just to Get to You”, from Letter to Laredo, also rides a brisker tempo and features some nifty accordion soloing from Guzman. They close the album with another snappy ditty, Townes Van Zandt’s “White Freightliner Blues”, with Ely trading lead vocals with his gruff-voiced protĆ©gĆ©, Ryan Bingham.

The performances on Live Cactus! are most effective at their extremes. The mid-tempo tunes that comprise the rest of the album are solidly enjoyable, but generally less captivating than the earlier studio versions that were filled out with a backing band. The thrills on Live Cactus! come from holding your breath during the pauses between notes or feeling the energy of the crowd during Ely and Guzman’s friskier numbers. Any lover of American music would be taken in by these songs and the masterful skills of Ely and Guzman. The rest of the record is mostly for those who are already fans of Ely and will happily devour as many different takes of “Ranches and Rivers” that they can get. For the rest of you, Live Cactus! is a very good album that showcases much of Ely’s top material, but not as well as his 2000 Best of Joe Ely.

Wednesday, April 02, 2008

Today's Tune: Ryan Bingham- Southside of Heaven




(Click on title to play video)

For Ryan Bingham, the rawness is real

Ryan Bingham has no formal musical training. His chords are often mismatched and his lyrics melancholy. But his songs are heartfelt and genuine, and that's what makes him stand out.

By Scott Gold, Los Angeles Times Staff Writer
http://www.latimes.com
March 30, 2008

Michael Stravato / For The Los Angeles Times

Ryan Bingham, singer: "I was lost. Broke. Playing guitar was my way out."


HOUSTON -- There are nights when Ryan Bingham sounds just like what he is, and there's no shame in that.

He sounds like a kid. Twenty-six years old, on paper, but a kid, really, who can write a pretty song about truck stops and pawnshops but was still carrying around a chord book not all that long ago. A musician so raw that some prospective band members have thrown up their hands and bailed on him because his songs, all mismatched chords and misplaced bridges, don't make sense to people who know what they're doing.

Then there are nights like this.

It's a blustery, mischief-making night in Houston. Bingham is playing Fitzgerald's, a beer joint that ran out of letters for the marquee, so it says RYA BGAM on the side of the building. The graffiti over the toilet says "JESUS VOTES REPUBLICAN," and the ratty wooden floor in front of the stage rises and falls like a fat man's belly when the crowd gets going. It's his kind of place, and it's packed.

Most in the audience are there to see Joe Ely, or at least they think they are.

Ely is virtual nobility in the West Texas songwriting kingdom, which has produced, over the years, a startlingly deep bench of talent -- Buddy Holly, Waylon Jennings, Terry Allen, Jimmie Dale Gilmore. Backstage, Ely suggests, graciously, that the show is a "co-bill," that it's coincidence that Bingham is going on first.

The truth is, Bingham’s got less than an hour out there. It’s all he needs. His belly full of pork chops and Lone Star beers, Bingham rips through a dizzying set of 13 songs, with elements of roadhouse rock, beach music, mariachi, new country and old.

By the time he's done, his voice is so throaty he sounds like a dying man's last wish. When he puts down his guitar and strides offstage, people in the front row are banging their fists on the stage and chanting "Bing-ham! Bing-ham!" and it's so absurdly over the top you'd think they've been healed at an old-timey revival.

Bingham seems a little taken aback himself. Backstage, he stands in a corner, drops his cowboy hat between the toes of his boots and bends over with his hands on his knees. Sweat drips from his nose, and he says nothing until he notices a visitor.

"Hey, man," he drawls. "You havin' a good night?"

Bingham, raised in New Mexico and Texas, reveals his hardscrabble life in his songs.
March 7, 2008


Rough beginnings

Just about everybody who hears Bingham for the first time assumes it's all a put-on, that no one his age could have this many miles and hardships behind him.

He hasn't received much press, despite the release last fall of his first major-label album, "Mescalito." Some of the attention has been laced with skepticism; one alternative publication said he had fallen victim to "absurd self-mythologizing."

That's what Ely figured too, after someone handed him a Bingham tape a few years back. It seemed a little silly for a then-24-year-old to be singing about "being a desperado in West Texas for so long," about being "lost on them back roads so many times I've gone blind."

But Ely, like most who have come across Bingham, learned quickly not to underestimate him. The more Bingham unspools, the more it becomes clear he is authentically wayworn and wounded, that his life has, as his songs contend, hurtled between cursed and charmed.

“That’s a rough-and-tumble world out there in West Texas,” said Ely, who grew up in Amarillo and Lubbock. "It's not a very easy place, even if things are going good. There comes a time when you might either wind up in the pen or you can pick up your guitar and sing your way out. That's what Ryan did. I could relate to it."

He was born just across the New Mexico border, in the boom-and-bust oil town Hobbs. His grandfather was a cattle rancher and owned 72 square miles, each more stark than the last, between Hobbs and Carlsbad.

Bingham's family lost the ranch amid a money dispute and would soon see more bust than boom. His father became a roughneck, an old-fashioned oil field worker who chased his work, first to Bakersfield, Calif., then to Texas -- to Midland, Odessa, Laredo. They never stayed anywhere long; Bingham eventually stopped unpacking, then reduced his belongings to a cardboard box that he carried from town to town.

His parents, he said, "were not mean people. They just couldn't get it together." Trouble came in heaps: "Fights. Pills. Alcohol." One day, he came home and slumped on the couch. The TV wasn't working but something underneath the set caught his eye. It was a mirror topped with a pile of cocaine.

"I thought: 'Well, no wonder the electricity got turned off again,' " he said.

Before his 17th birthday, he dropped out of school, where he'd grown tired of being the new kid in a small town, and left home for good.

"It just wasn't working out," he said quietly.

He was befriended by a group of Mexican boys who introduced him to jackpot bullrides. His uncle had ridden bulls professionally and had imparted a few tricks of the trade, including the ability to sense how close he could get to the edge before he had to jump free of an animal.

Until then, Bingham had ridden only smaller steers in the bull-riding equivalent of Little League. Now he was graduating to the real thing, bulls that could easily weigh more than 2,000 pounds -- "beasts," Bingham said with a smile, "who will stalk you down."

In the next few years, he would ride hundreds of bulls in Mexico and Texas. He broke both legs, one wrist and the big toe on his right foot three times. He broke his right hand at least once just hanging onto the rope, leaving him with a permanent growth on the back of his hand.

One night in Weatherford, Texas, a menacing black angus named Spanky reared his head violently and crushed Bingham in the face, leaving his top lip hanging from his face and knocking out most of his upper teeth, now replaced with fakes.

Bingham's friends -- particularly his prom date, as he had put himself back in high school and the dance was just a few days after the incident -- nearly fainted when they saw his face. He got a kick out of the whole thing.

"It gave me a purpose -- something," Bingham said. "Something to drive for."

Musician Joe Ely, left, backstage at Fitzgerald’s with Bingham’s girlfriend, Anna Axster; Bingham; and Bingham’s friend and drummer, Matt Smith. Ely said he felt a kinship with young Bingham: “That’s a rough-and-tumble world out there in West Texas. There comes a time when you might either wind up in the pen or you can pick up your guitar and sing your way out. That’s what Ryan did. I could relate.”
March 7, 2008


Music as refuge

Still, he was often homeless, working odd jobs -- shoeing horses, pouring concrete -- and sleeping on friend's couches and in the bed of his truck. His only constant companion was a guitar he could barely play.

His mother, who died recently, had given it to him for his 16th birthday. It was a little classical guitar with gut strings. Bingham knew one song, taught to him by a crackhead who lived next door at a seedy apartment complex in Laredo. It was a mariachi-style folk song called "La Malaguena:"

"Que bonitos ojos tienes. . . . Ellos me quieren mirar."

"What pretty eyes you have. . . . They want to look at me."

Bored, Bingham got himself a chord book. Untrained, he could not pick up the keys or the chord progressions of other people's songs. So, unlike most musicians, the first songs he learned to play -- other than "La Malaguena" -- were his own. (That's why he plays few cover songs in concert, other than the occasional Freddie King number.)

About seven years ago, while living in a trailer outside Fort Worth, he sat on the couch one day and began to play. Out came "Southside of Heaven," the song that is perhaps best known today within his small but fervent following.

The song was born of anger and abandonment and solitude -- the very authenticity that those who don't know better have called into question. It was uncommonly revealing and personal: "Money can't buy my soul, 'cause it comes from a hard-earned place. . . . Losing faith in my family has driven me out of my damn mind."

"I couldn't sing. I couldn't play guitar," he said. "But that day, it damn near made me cry."

Bingham, still riding bulls, recorded some of his songs in a friend's garage and began hawking recordings while playing on tailgates before rodeos. Soon, he was booking himself at roadhouses and beer halls, wherever the rodeo circuit took him. He developed a small local following; a couple of his songs even made it on the radio.

Then came a fateful night five years ago, when he mistakenly booked a rodeo in Brownwood and a bar in Dallas -- almost 200 miles apart. The choice, he said, was evident.

"I was lost. Broke. Playing guitar was my way out," he said. "When I wrote these songs, I was just venting. . . . And then when I played and people liked it? And wanted to pay me money to do it? Well. . . . " He threw his head back and laughed.

Bingham dived into his music, studying his guitar, playing small clubs across the West, busking for tips and recording several versions of his songs. He scraped together enough money to record a fairly polished album in Nashville -- a little too polished, though a small label began to distribute it in 2006. Bingham hated the recording. So did his band.

"It didn't sound like Ryan," said Matthew Smith, his drummer. "It sounded like what somebody thought Ryan should sound like."

Bingham jams with Corby Schaub, who is on the mandolin. Some musicians have grown frustrated with Bingham’s music, he confessed, because he wrote many of his songs with no training, so the songs break many “rules” of traditional music.

Some breaks

But the stars were about to align.

Around then, Bingham had been invited to play in Marfa, Texas, at a large anniversary party thrown every few years by musician Terry Allen and his wife, Jo Harvey. Allen had invited Bingham after catching his act at a local club.

It was no ordinary party; it was more like a Cabinet meeting of the West Texas songwriters. Among those in attendance: Ely, Guy Clark, Butch Hancock, Gilmore and Robert Earl Keen. David Byrne of the Talking Heads, who'd begun collaborating with Ely, was there too. Everybody had a guitar, and they played until almost 8 the next morning. Bingham kept pace, and more; it was all the Cabinet needed to see.

"It's a pretty serious lineup, and he just kept right up," Ely said. "That night, we accepted him into the Texas Songwriters Ne'er-Do-Wells -- an exclusive club."

Ely, Allen and others took Bingham under their wing, letting him sleep in their guest rooms when he was in town and lobbying for him in the industry. Lost Highway Records, a Universal Music subsidiary, came calling for Bingham a few months later. The first thing Bingham did was buy a new van for his band; the old one had conked out as they had driven into Nashville to sign the contract.

At about the same time, Marc Ford, an elite guitarist best known for his work with the Black Crowes, and Ben Harper, walked late one night into the King King, a Hollywood Boulevard club. Bingham was on stage.

"I was floored," Ford said. "I believed every single word that he said."

When Bingham walked off stage, Ford was waiting. He effectively demanded to take over Bingham's recording. Bingham agreed at once, and together they took up residence at the Compound, a recording studio in Long Beach whose sound is gaining an increasing reputation among Southern California musicians.

To that point, Bingham's recordings were "Nashvilled out," Ford said. "By trying to make it better for radio, they were taking something away from it," he said.

Ford stripped them down as if they were rebuilding an old house. They eliminated many of the fancy trappings, such as a pedal steel guitar part that had been added on "Southside of Heaven." A machine had been used to automatically put Bingham's voice in tune; Ford did away with it, recognizing that it eroded the raw, untutored sound that had struck him that night at the King King.

"It needed to be bones -- its natural state," Ford said.

The result was "Mescalito," Bingham's first album for Lost Highway. Bingham, Ford and the band -- also including guitarist-mandolinist Corby Schaub and bassist Elijah Ford, Marc Ford's son -- are back at the Compound today; they will remain there for the next 10 days or so recording Bingham's next album.

They're a loose, tight-knit group; they spend much of their time smoking cigarettes, drinking beer and telling Texas tales -- about how they're going to have to rename themselves "The Dirty Underwear Gang" if they don't get off the road soon, about the time a roadie stole a chicken from some backwoods beer hall.

None of it masks the sense of possibility that follows them around these days. Bingham is a practical man; he knows that he will probably either make it or not in the next couple of years. At the same time, he figures that it took him this long to convince the skeptics that he's real. There's no sense in doing anything different now.

"If it's not the best record in the world, well, then that's as good as we are right now," he said. "It's not going to be anything that it's not. That's the way it should be. Always."

scott.gold@latimes.com


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