Tag: Big Ass Truck

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Food & Wine Food & Drink Hungry Memphis

Big Ass Beer

Founding Big Ass Truck member Robby Grant with a can of Malt Liquor Man (Credit: Clark Ostrieke)

Big Ass Truck now has a big ass beer named after it.

Crosstown Brewing Company will introduce its first malt liquor, Malt Liquor Man, between 4 and 6 p.m., Thursday, November 2nd, at the Concourse Block Party at Crosstown Concourse, says the brewery’s owner Clark Ortkiese. Free beer will be available for those 21 and up. 

Then, between 6 and 8 p.m., Crosstown Brewing Co. will be selling the malt liquor at the brewery, which is located at Crosstown Concourse. “Big Ass Truck will be in the tap room between 6 and 8 spinning their favorite songs,” Ortkiese says.

If Malt Liquor Man sounds familiar, that’s because it’s also the name of one of Big Ass Truck’s songs.

Big Ass Truck DJ Colin Butler came up with the idea of the brewery doing a malt liquor in honor of the band, which is celebrating its 30th anniversary this year, Ortkiese says. “I think he specifically said, ‘Would you do a malt liquor?’’’

To which Ortkiese replied, “Hell, yeah, we could.”

Big Ass Truck: On steps: Robby Grant, Colin Butler, Robert Barnett.
On ground: Grayson Grant, Steve Selvidge, Alex Greene (Credit: Bob Bayne)
Clark Ortkiese (Credit: Clark Ortkiese)

Butler was part of the original lineup for the psychedelic/funk/rock/hip-hop band, which also included Steve Selvidge on guitar and vocals, Robby Grant on guitar and vocals, Robert Barnett on drums, Joe Boone on bass, Alex Greene (now Memphis Flyer music editor) on keyboards, and percussion player Drew Conner.

“We had never done one before and we’re kind of itching to do one. So much of craft beer can be so highfalutin and fancy at times. And all these crazy things. To me, it doesn’t have to be. I like the idea of making a craft malt liquor.”

Malt liquor is “kind of loosely defined. It’s a high-alcohol workingman’s drink. Probably ’30s, ’40s was when it cut its teeth.” The beer usually is considered “a cheap drink for the masses. It got them drunk and it was cheap to make.”

As for their malt liquor, Ortkiese says, “We thought it was fun to reimagine it and make it something elevated.”

Malt Liquor Man is “sneaky strong, very smooth, and clean. We use some corn in it to get that traditional malt liquor flavor.”

And, he says, “Paper bags are optional.”

Clark Ortkiese (Credit: Clark Ortkiese)

Ortkiese and Grant, are “allies,” Ortkiese says. Grant is executive director at WYXR radio, which also is based at Crosstown Concourse.

He and Grant also are part of “The Sunday Group,” a golf group that gets together every Sunday. “It’s a bunch of marketing people. You’d think we’d have a more creative name.

“Colin Butler played sometimes with us. I can’t remember where we were, but we were talking about doing a beer and releasing it at their 30th anniversary party. But our production schedule didn’t allow it.”

The song, “Malt Liquor Man,” which is “just about enjoying cold malt liquor on a summer afternoon,” is included on the band’s self-titled first album, Big Ass Truck, which came out in the ’90s, Butler says. He remembers how the song came to be. “That was a fun, sweltering afternoon sitting on our porch drinking some cheap 40s of malt liquor.”

Big Ass Truck: the early years. Robby Grant, Alex Greene, Colin Butler, Drew Conner, Joe Boone, Robert Barnett, Steve Selvidge (Credit: Trey Harrison)

Why malt liquor? “’Cause it was cheap, easy to get, and across the street at Peter Pan’s Pantry, which is where we’d go. We have a song called ‘Peter Pan’s Pantry,’ too.”

That song, which was named after the iconic Midtown convenience store, was written by Greene and Selvidge.

And, Butler says, “I’d seen where another local brewery had done a beer for Gonerfest. Someone did ‘GonerBrau.’ Memphis Made. And I’d seen where Crosstown brewery had done a beer for WYXR, where Robby works. I thought, ‘These guys may be into doing this for us.’”

Tom Martin designed the label for the malt liquor. “He was way into doing a design for the malt liquor ’cause he’s a friend of ours. He does all their labels. He was particularly into this one because he’s a friend of ours and a fan of the band and a fan of the song.”

“Malt Liquor Man” malt liquor

Malt Liquor Man — the brew — won’t be the last beer named after a band, Ortkiese says. “I’ve got another beer coming up in December. We’re working with another local band — Grape.”

Asked to reveal something about the beer, Ortkiese says, “You think it would have grapes in it, wouldn’t you?”

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Music Music Features

Big Ass Truck Is All You Can Handle

On steps (left to right): Robby Grant, Colin Butler, Robert Barnett; on ground: Grayson Grant, Steve Selvidge, Alex Greene (Photo: Bob Bayne)

I am proud to say I wrote the first newspaper story about Big Ass Truck 30 years ago. And I remember being worried whether I could get the word “ass” in the newspaper.

Apparently, there wasn’t any problem. The story about the psychedelic/funk/rock/hip-hop band appeared in my Listen Up column when I was at The Commercial Appeal.

“Before we did our first Listen Up, I sent you a cake — a personalized cake,” says Steve Selvidge, the band’s lead guitarist and co-lead singer with Robby Grant.

Big Ass Truck will celebrate its 30th anniversary with its “All You Can Handle Birthday Bash” at 8 p.m., October 14th, at Minglewood Hall.

The band also will release All You Can Handle, a double vinyl retrospective, the same day. “We couldn’t call it Greatest Hits because we don’t have any hits.”

Selvidge remembers how the band’s name originated. “I was driving home from class at Memphis State one day, and this giant truck came blazing past me.”

The guy who was with him said, “Fuck a big truck.” That “notion of a big ass truck” was always poking around in his head, Selvidge says.

Before Big Ass Truck, Selvidge and Grant were in Fester, but they were “just making noise and improvising.”

But Jared McStay from the Simpletones liked Fester and wanted the band to open for them in an upcoming show at the Antenna Club. Selvidge told him Fester wasn’t going anywhere, but he’d put a group together to play.

The original Big Ass Truck lineup also included Robert Barnett on drums, Joe Boone on bass, Alex Greene (now Memphis Flyer music editor) on keyboards, DJ Colin Butler on turntables, and percussion player Drew Conner.

Antenna’s owner asked Selvidge the name of their new band. “I hadn’t a name. I remembered that afternoon of a truck going by me. I said, ‘I don’t know. Call it Big Ass Truck.’”

The Antenna gig “went down like crazy. As I remember, Andria Lisle was there that night and asked me if I wanted to do a seven inch.”

They recorded the seven inch, which was on the Sugar Ditch label, at Sam Phillips Recording Studio.

Shortly after that Antenna gig, Big Ass Truck was “tapped the hottest band in Memphis by the [Memphis] Flyer.”

“It wasn’t too long before we were headlining the New Daisy. Which was our first year. It was amazing because most of us had been plugging away for years in other bands. Just barely getting anything going. And so it was really fun and cool to all of us that suddenly people were coming to our shows. And people were knowing who we were.”

Stephan Crump, who subbed one summer for vacationing Boone, appeared on their self-titled CD, which was recorded at Kiva studio.

Big Ass Truck began getting bookings in Atlanta and Athens, Georgia. “The shows kept getting bigger and bigger.”

Ross Rice produced Kent, which they recorded at Ardent Studios after being signed to Upstart Records, a division of Rounder Records.

Ardent was a big deal. “I grew up there with my dad [late singer-songwriter Sid Selvidge]. This is the top in Memphis. This is the legend.

“I dyed my hair dark blue. I’m running around with blue hair and no shirt on at Ardent. I was living the dream, man.”

Big Ass Truck began to slow down after Boone dropped out of the band. They continued to play, but, Selvidge says, “It turned into us chasing the brass ring. It lost a lot of that kind of innocence. It was still a blast, but it sort of changed after that. Then we just continued on until 2001.”

They played their last show at Young Avenue Deli. “It wasn’t like our ‘final show’ or any of that. We didn’t milk it.”

They played other reunion shows with other people over the years, but “the core members — Steve, Colin, Robert, and Robby — never left.”

The high point for Big Ass Truck was when the band won the NARAS Premier Players Band of the Year award in the mid-’90s, Selvidge says.

Big Ass Truck was their “entry point” as professional musicians, Selvidge says. “I think now about a lot of fun times on the road. I think about a lot of hard times on the road. Stuff you deal with. But we were tight, man. And it was a lot of laughs.”

Categories
Film/TV Film/TV/Etc. Blog

Music Video Monday on Tuesday: Big Ass Truck

CREDIT: Cole Early

Cole Early

Robby Grant and Steve Selvidge rock Railgartenwith Big Ass Truck

You were out of pocket on Labor Day, so we’re doing Music Video Monday on Tuesday.

In the 1990s, Big Ass Truck was the hottest ticket in Memphis. Formed by Steve Selvidge, Robby Grant, and Alex Greene (who is the current music editor for the Memphis Flyer) with the goal of being the post-modern MGs, they were one of the first bands anywhere to incorporate turntablism in a rock band setting, courtesy of DJ Colin Butler.

After touring relentlessly for the better part of the decade, the band went on hiatus in 2001. Nowadays, Grant is instrumental in the Mellotron Variations and Selvidge is the lead guitarist in, among other bands, The Hold Steady. Big Ass Truck has been periodically reforming for one-offs and short tours, like they did last winter at Railgarten. Director and producer Cole Early was on hand with his camera crew to capture the stone cold groove.

This Saturday, September 7th, Big Ass Truck will open for The Hold Steady at The Basement in Nashville, and once again, it’s the hottest ticket in town. Courtesy of Early, here’s a little taste of what the folks paying top dollar for that show will see.

Big Ass Truck – Live at Railgarten Memphis 11-21-18 ”Theem From” from Cole Early on Vimeo.

Music Video Monday on Tuesday: Big Ass Truck

If you would like to see your music video featured on Music Video Monday, email cmccoy@memphisflyer.com

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Cover Feature News

You Don’t Miss Your Water

CREDIT: David McClister

Missing Memphis is a common condition, it would seem. Everyone’s heard about the curious travelers who come for a one week visit and end up staying a lifetime, but fewer talk about the many who leave, only to experience an epiphany about what was left behind and return with renewed fervor. It’s a theme that the creator of the Mempho Music Festival has in common with one of the festival’s greatest performers, William Bell. In harkening back to their hometown from afar, both created something musical that could last for decades, if not generations.

David McClister

William Bell needs no introduction to those who appreciate Memphis music. Though he lives in Atlanta now, he exudes our city’s history. And, as it turns out, his first hit was inspired by homesickness. Born William Yarbrough, he took his stage name after his grandmother Belle. And he needed a stage name at a very young age.

Like so many before and after him, he had Rufus Thomas to thank for his leap into show business. “His band played behind me when I was 14 years old. One of the Bihari brothers, Lester, he had a little label here called Meteor Records, out on Thomas. I was with the Del Rios then, a vocal group I had formed to work down at the Flamingo on Hernando Street. I was 14 years old, still in high school. And Rufus’ band, the Bearcats, played behind me. So the whole Thomas family is like family to me. Marvell, Carla, Vaneese, and I all grew up together.”

Ronnie Booze

Hi Rhythm: Leroy Hodges, Rev. Charles Hodges, Archie “Hubbie” Turner

Bell eventually became a featured performer with the best local band of them all, the Phineas Newborn Sr. Orchestra. When Bell was only 21, the orchestra scored a six-week residency at a New York club, which was extended to three months. That was when Bell’s longing for home kicked in, and when he returned he put that feeling into a song that evoked his days singing in church.

As Peter Guralnick wrote of the number, “‘You Don’t Miss Your Water,’ like most of Bell’s hits for himself and others (‘Share What You Got,’ ‘Everybody Loves a Winner,’ ‘Every Day Will Be Like a Holiday,’ ‘Born Under a Bad Sign’) retailed a familiar folk saying and expanded upon it with a simplicity and craft that rendered it quietly eloquent.”

Bell had been to Satellite Records’ studio once before, singing backup on Carla Thomas’ “Gee Whiz.” In 1961, he took in his own song, “Formula of Love,” to cut a single for the label, freshly re-christened Stax. For the B-side, he offered up the homesick/lovesick lament he’d penned after his New York stay. And that was what DJs all over the country literally flipped for. Six months later, it had put Stax on the Billboard charts.

Bell, of course, went on to become both a performer and songwriter at Stax into the next decade, and his voice and recorded masterpieces lived on beyond the label’s eventual bankruptcy. What’s striking, though, is the way the creation of his first hit echoes the genesis of the very festival he’ll be playing this week.

Jamie Harmon

Leroy Hodges, from sessions for Amazon’s ‘Produced By: Matt Ross-Spang’ series.

We have Diego Winegardner to thank for Mempho, whose career in the New York area gave him the means to jump-start the festival of his dreams last year. “I grew up in Memphis in the late ’70s and into the ’80s,” he says. “I think being here when Stax was prominent and all these great hits were coming out of Memphis, made me think Memphis was the music capital of the United States. It wasn’t Nashville, and it wasn’t Austin. So I wanted to be able to provide a platform for all these great local artists that are here, drawing inspiration from that past but also bringing it forward. So we’re always gonna tip our hat to some aspect of that rich music legacy. Last year, we did a tribute to Stax, with Steve Cropper and Booker T. And Eddie Floyd also sat in on that. And this year we’re gonna pay tribute to Royal Studios, Boo Mitchell, and his family’s contribution to Memphis music.”

Last year, Royal Studios celebrated its 60th anniversary, and Saturday evening’s tribute will offer a slice of Memphis, past and present, that will be hard to beat. It will feature an approach that was pioneered in the 2015 Royal-produced film, Take Me to the River, where old-school soul legends were paired with rappers and other younger performers. William Bell, for instance, collaborated with Snoop Dogg in a revisitation of “I Forgot to Be Your Lover,” Bell’s hit from 1968. The Mempho show will follow in those footsteps, featuring Bell and Bobby Rush alongside hometown hip-hop giants Frayser Boy and Al Kapone, and a cameo from Ashton Riker.

Image of Bell in his early Stax years.

But the real secret weapon behind the show will be the Hi Rhythm Section, named after the label that was synonymous with Royal Studios for decades. Having backed the likes of Al Green and other Hi stars, the band, with Charles Hodges on organ, Leroy Hodges on bass, Archie “Hubbie” Turner on keyboards, has been enjoying a renaissance of sorts, including last year’s Grammy nomination for their collaboration, Robert Cray & Hi Rhythm. But the band can collaborate on more than the blues, as the ongoing tours spawned by Take Me to the River proved.

Boo Mitchell, who runs Royal Studios and Royal Records with his sister Anna, notes that the seasoned players can easily adapt to hip-hop. “They’ve done it before. We’ve done several things with Frayser Boy and Al Kapone. Definitely not a stretch. They’ve played behind Snoop Dogg and played on records with the Wu-Tang Clan. That Better Tomorrow record has some of the Hi guys on that.”

In fact, Bell sees the Hi players having a beneficial effect on the hip-hop world. “It worked so great that Frayser Boy and Al Kapone said they would never work with pre-recorded tracks again. They love live music behind ’em now. Because the energy and the freedom of being loose on stage and conversing with the audience and everything, and not have to follow a track. A lot of the rappers now, Snoop and Jay Z and a lot of them, are working with live musicians.”

For his part, though he’s associated with Stax, Bell feels right at home at Hi as well. The familial spirit of the two studios was always similar and came to full fruition when Bell participated in Take Me to the River. “We did that movie and we won a lot of awards behind it, so it gave us a shot in the arm, career-wise,” he says. “So we toured for two months with Take Me to the River, part one. And we filmed a sequel that’s coming out soon, with New Orleans musicians.”

But that’s not all that’s keeping Bell’s name in the spotlight. His 2016 solo record, This Is Where I Live, stubbornly anchored in the classic soul sounds that put him on the map, won a Grammy for Best Americana Album. And he recently joined Margo Price, John Prine, and Al Green in the Amazon-sponsored sessions with Matt Ross-Spang at Sam Phillips Recording Studio, just released last month. And in a few weeks, Craft Recordings will release a massive compilation, Stax ’68: A Memphis Story, that heavily features some of Bell’s most iconic work.

“There are some gems,” he says. “Concord asked me to give my input, so I’ve listened to a lot of the stuff. There’s some unheard of gems in that collection. Any fan of Memphis music, you can’t go wrong in getting that ’68 compilation.”

Even with so much recent recording work going on, Bell is clearly thrilled to revisit his work of 50 years ago. “You know, a good song is a good song. It’ll come back around.”

Editor’s Picks for Mempho
Only in its second year, Mempho Music Festival has become a magnet for some of the nation’s biggest artists. Perhaps the most anticipated show is Nas, who’s just dropped his 12th album, Nasir. Beck, another artist rooted in the ’90s, has similarly become a major artist who continues to innovate. Newer megastars like Post Malone and Phoenix should draw massive crowds, but given the way Janelle Monae’s star has risen since her debut in 2010 and her parallel film career, she may outdraw all of them. There will be plenty of local genius on display, including Juicy J and Project Pat, Lucero, Don Bryant, Big Ass Truck, and the Lovelight Orchestra. As festival advisor Boo Mitchell notes, “It’s a music combination that’ll have something for every demographic.” And one distinctive Mempho feature, the all-star jam, blends diverse artists to entertain late-night groovers and those taking advantage of the new camping option. This year, it features Robert Randolph, Karl Denson, Cory Henry, Nate Smith, and Mononeon, among others. But the real triumph of Mempho may be in the shake-your-booty department. Says Mitchell, “We’ve got Parliament-Funkadelic AND the Bar Kays! That’s a whole lotta funk!”

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Cover Feature News

Worst Gig Ever! Memphis musicians share the worst nights of their career.

Music is Memphis’ greatest export. But for the musicians, taking it on the road means long drives, long nights, and a lot of weirdness. It can be a hard life, full of ups and downs, but it sure makes for good stories. So we asked some of Memphis’ finest musicians to tell us about their Worst Gigs Ever.   

Amy LaVere

I think it was the Memphis Queen. It was this new concept for a river voyage: A group of cyclists boarded for what was supposed to be a three-day cycling/boating adventure down to New Orleans. They were to port in Memphis in the early mid-morning, then they would depart the boat to go on a 40-mile bike ride. Then they would get back on the boat and have dinner, and we would be the after-dinner entertainment for their cruise.

Then they were going to stop in Tunica, where we would disembark with our gear and get ourselves back to Memphis. So the gig required us driving our van to Tunica with someone following us to bring us back to Memphis.

We get on the boat and waited around for everyone to finish a Cajun buffet dinner that had beignets and etouffee and French bread and alcohol, after they’d finished a 40-mile bike ride. They’re pretty much done. So about two-thirds of the audience goes to bed.

So right before we play, the promoter wants to introduce the band. We’re all on stage, and he gets up there in front of us and proceeds to give a speech to the audience that takes 15 minutes. It included such things as how to operate the toilets in their cabins. And we’re just standing there, wondering what the hell is going on. And then we play, and we put everyone to sleep, and it’s so sad. There were literally people with their arms folded, dozing.

When we get to Tunica to disembark, they had not reserved a docking spot for the riverboat, and the dock was full. There’s no place to dock. There’s a rocky cliff that goes up to a sidewalk/boardwalk along the Mississippi. I’m in a dress and heels, mind you. So what they did was, they basically reversed the boat, trying to stay stationary. But it was still moving down the river! It was going, like, five MPH. They lowered a plank, and I get handed down to a deck hand onto a rocky cliff that I then have to climb up barefoot with my dress up to the top. They were helping us get our gear off, but they were still moving, so by the time they got it all off, we were like a quarter mile strung out down the sidewalk.

By this point, we have a more interested audience watching us disembark than were interested at all in hearing us play. Then we had to walk our gear, piece by piece, all the way back up to the parking place at the dock. I think we made $400 on that gig, in total. Certainly the most comical and worst gig of my life.

Eric Oblivian,
True Sons of Thunder

I’ve played in bands around the world. I’ve played in squats in Slovenia. I’ve played in Croatia where they had no money to give us. But the worst show I’ve ever done was right here in Memphis with True Sons of Thunder. At one point, we had a goal of playing every club in town, which included the Rally Point. We booked a show with some emo band from somewhere. We show up, and the place is dimly lit — no microphones. It was so dark, we couldn’t tell if the turd that was on stage was human or canine. The show went on, and we did the show without vocals. We just sang into the air. We did our set, got out of there, and to my knowledge, the turd was still there while the other band played.

Alicja Trout, Rich Crook, and
John Garland, the Lost Sounds/Sweet Knives

AT: There was one that was just an epic night of bad things happening. The Vibrators wanted to get on our show in Detroit at the Old Miami club. We were playing with the Piranhas and Guilty Pleasures. The Vibrators were playing down the street, and they had this promoter named Lacy, and he says, “We’re playing down the street, and there’s nobody at our show. Can we come down and play with you guys?” And we said, “No, we’ve already got three bands . . .”

RC: We eventually said yes, but we weren’t going to share any money. And the Vibrators were HORRIBLE that night.

AT: I had this Peavy amp that had a phaser built in. I asked the guy if he wanted me to show him how to use the amp, because he was borrowing my stuff, rudely enough.

RC: … and he was like, “I think I’ve played enough amps!”

AT: So the phaser was turned all the way up, because we had ended the set with this big noise thing. And he played the whole show going “wheew … wheew . . . wheew…” He never figured it out. Then, one of the funniest things Jay [Reatard] ever said in his life…

RC: Dude said a lot of funny things.

AT: He said the dude from the Vibrators looked like Jimmy Page’s nutsack. He was balding and like had really wiry, black hair.

RC: Phil Spector-ish.

AT: It ended with this giant bar fight. The promoter walks in with a giant block of concrete. The cops come, and I kept saying, “Yeah, the puff-mullet. You know those guys with the puff mullets?” And everyone was like, what is she talking about?

RC: Turned out the guy had a goiter on his neck with hair growing out of it.

AT: I thought it was a mullet.

RC: I was outside the whole time. I walked in, it was like a saloon piano was playing. John got slid across the bar.

JG: I saw Alicja get punched, so I went in.

AT: Oh yeah. I got punched right in the face. The bartender came up to me, and this dude’s fist was coming right at me. He grabbed me. ‘You gotta get out of here! You’re gonna get killed!” He was carrying me out, and I was like, “Where the hell am I going?” Jay comes out of the bathroom. He’s been doing coke with this guy from the other band. They looked around and realized, “Gahh! We’re enemies!” They started going at it.  

Chris Davis, Papa Top’s West Coast Turnaround

This would have been sometime in the late 1990s. We had just played a gig at Kudzu’s, and we had a little liquor in us. The only piece of parental advice (guitarist) John Stiver’s father ever gave him was, “Stay away from Harpo’s Lounge. You’ll get killed.” So we decided we would see if they would let us play for beer. This is a self-inflicted gig. It was our own fault.

Let me first say that Harpo’s has reopened, and it’s nice. They’ve gentrified it. Back then, they self-described it as the most redneck place on Earth. It was infamous for finding dead hookers out behind it.

The minute we walked in, we could see that there were more people than teeth here. It was all rebel flags and unfinished plywood. There was a lot of drug dealing, a lot of meth. So there were a lot of working ladies. They made it clear we were different and unwelcome.

I had on a sequined, knock-off Nudie suit jacket. There was a guy following me around saying, “I’m gonna go home with that jacket!” There was a working girl who looked like Grandma from the Addams Family. She was saying I looked like Elvis, and she was going home with me.

John Whittemore was playing pedal steel, and he had a woman who was reaching around him with one hand on the hand he was picking with, and the other hand he’s barring with. Grandma would walk around behind me, and when I would be singing, and my hands occupied with the guitar, she would reach up between my legs and start squeezing my business. It got a lot easier to hit those high notes.

Was this a bad gig? I guess it depends on how you define gig. We just sort of showed up. They didn’t want us. But by the time it was over, there were people calling out requests. We did our usual set, and played Elvis’ “Little Sister.” That was when the guy who was going to knock me in the head and steal my jacket decided we were okay. He wasn’t going to knock me in the head, but he was still probably going to take my jacket.

Marcella Simien,
Marcella and Her Lovers

We were playing this outdoor festival, and I was handed a note in the middle of a song asking me to announce that a 6-year-old boy was missing and had been for over an hour. They made it sound like this kid just took off — a little renegade. I smiled to myself at first, thinking “Okay, the kid is probably off doing things 6-year-olds do.” Then it started to sink in.

I’ve gotten notes on stage with song requests, marriage proposals, birthday requests. But a missing persons report? This was a first, real “Stop the presses!” kind of stuff. So I made the announcement, and the stage manager motioned for us to continue, to keep playing. So we did. But the whole time there was this feeling, this undertone of … missing kid … impossible to ignore. I mean, how can you not be concerned?   

Several songs later the kid still hadn’t shown up, and no one was any the wiser as to where he might have been. Someone from the sheriff’s department got onstage and made another announcement as the band and I helplessly looked at each other, eyes all big. This person makes the announcement sounding like the conductor of a train and then hands the mic back to me. Somehow we finished the set, packed up, and headed out. But not before leaving behind a suitcase full of our merchandise. Thankfully we got word on the drive home that the child had been found. He pedaled his Big Wheel back on up to the house like nothing had happened.

Steve Selvidge

Big Ass Truck was playing at a fraternity down in Oxford. They paid well. That show would finance a whole tour. And people usually had a good time. It was in our contract that you were hiring us to be us. We weren’t going to play Dave Matthews or Phish. We’re playing outside at this crawfish boil. It’s an all-day thing. People were getting drunk. Some kid thought it would be funny while we’re playing to flip the breakers. So we’re playing, and the power cuts. That happened all the time — it’s no big deal — you just have to sit there and wait for it to come back on. So we start playing again, and the kid flips the breakers again. Power goes off. It keeps happening!

Finally, the sound guy figures what’s going on. “There’s a kid flipping the breaker. We dealt with it.” But it messed up the P.A. The monitors went out, and we couldn’t play. With a DJ, we needed the monitors, because we’re playing to him.

People didn’t understand why we wouldn’t play, and they were getting restless. This entitled little fuck frat kid hops up on stage, grabs the mic, and says “Big Ass Truck sucks!” I was livid. I got up and I was just like, “Get the fuck off my stage you little shit.” Then the monitors come back on, and I’m like, “Hey, sorry about that! Let me tell you what was going on. We’re here to play and have fun. It’s gonna be a good time. But that little fuck who was flipping the breaker on and off, your mother [string of shocking expletives deleted].” Should have taken the high road. But I didn’t. Then we just light into the set. We were furious. It was fun. Next thing you know, there’s a bunch of people who want to kick my ass. I’m looking at guys in the crowd mouthing, “I’m going to kill you!”

Joseph Higgins, Chinese Connection Dub Embassy

The worst gig was one of the first gigs we played out of town. It was just a trip to Nashville. Everything was going great, then 30 minutes out of Nashville, our front tire pops off and drags the car a quarter mile down the expressway.
So we get the tow truck to come and get us, and then we find out we have to go to the nearest place to get it fixed before we can do anything. So our bass player, Omar, and Paul, our guitarist at the time, and my brother David head to the Walmart to change the tire out. This is in the middle of summer, and it’s got to be 105 degrees. Two of us are in the tow truck, and the other three are in the car.

We finally get to Walmart after driving around everywhere looking for it. We’re desperate to get to Nashville to play the gig. This was on a Saturday, and all of the places to get a tire fixed are closed. Then we find out we need over $800 worth of work on the car before we can do anything. We had to call some friends and family to see if we can find anyone to take us to the gig. The guitarist called his family to come and get us. He was so angry at the whole thing, he just wanted to go home. We were like, “No man, we should at least go to Nashville, play the gig, and make some money to pay for the car!” But he was all flustered. “We can’t do this. Let’s just go.”

After we come back to Memphis, we find out later that night that the venue we were playing — it was called Nash Bash — had over a thousand people at the show. We did know it at the time, but we were one of the headliners. We find out there was a big crowd waiting to see us, because there was no reggae on the bill. Then we find out the promoter for the show lives in Franklin. He could have picked us up and taken us to the show and brought us back. It literally could have all been fixed if we had had the promoter’s number on hand. Since then we have a backup plan for everything. 

Jonathan Kiersky, Club Owner
Without naming names, this was the worst: It was a Brooklyn four-piece — three synthesizers and a drummer. They had a bunch of press and a strong booking agent, so I booked them. Not sure how they had so much professional support, except it was the heyday of the indie pop scene in Brooklyn. One of them may have been a model.  

Early on, we realized this show would be a mess, since it was their first tour, and set up and soundcheck were a disaster. Show starts, and the vibe on stage is complete fear. Finally during the third song, the lead singer/synth player just yells “Stop, stop, stop!” and starts weeping on stage. We hoped she would pull it together and the show would go on but that was not the case. They just walked off stage, packed their shit up, and left. My jaw had never been closer to the floor.

Chris Milam
Friday night in Gloucester, Massachusetts. The bar was packed, the crowd homogenous: male, bearded, titanically drunk. Picture the cast of Perfect Storm meets the cast of Jersey Shore. And I was scheduled to play for two hours, solo acoustic.

Somehow, they liked me — too much. A mosh pit formed — onstage. One guy insisted on “freestyling to his lady.”  Another swiped at my guitar mid-song, “helping” me play. The night got later, the crowd drunker, would-be fights started popping up around me. It was a farce; a mostly-improvised, slightly-violent farce.  
When I finished, I hustled my gear out to my car. I came back to find a waitress literally stiff-arming a man away from my night’s pay. Come to think of it: I made it out in one piece, my guitar made it out in one piece, and I got paid in full. I’ve had worse gigs.

Brennan Villines
I was playing with my trio years ago at my uncle’s house for a pool party in Arlington, which is as amazing as it sounds. My music doesn’t necessarily lend itself to a backyard full of Gen X white people who have musical tastes spanning from George Strait to Kenny Chesney. We were asked — yelled at — to play a certain song, the name of which I cannot recall at the moment. I remember being disgusted at the request coming from the drunkest person at the party.

I said I didn’t know the song and continued with my set. He called me a queer and threw a wet towel at my face from about 25 feet away. The towel smacked me surprisingly hard … in mid song. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed with his throwing ability, given the distance factored with his blood alcohol content. But, this was definitely a low point in my career. Just as I was feeling defeated, my uncle pushed him in the pool, and we all had a good laugh.

Andria Lisle, Music Journalist
The worst gig I ever attended was one I knew would be awful going in. I expected, and got, the worst on November 16, 1991, when I walked through the doors of Antenna to see G.G. Allin and the Murder Junkies.
It was the pre-internet age, so what I knew of G.G. Allin was gleaned from the pages of MAXIMUM ROCKNROLL and via first-hand stories from friends who had caught Allin on the road in other cities. Self-billed as “the last true rock and roller,” Allin would take Ex-Lax before his gig, then defecate on stage. When the Memphis stop on his fall 1991 tour was announced, I should’ve wondered “Who on Earth would want to attend something like this?” Instead, I thought, “Who would want to miss it?”

I paid my $5 and cautiously took a post in the back of the room, close enough to the door that I could escape if necessary. I can’t remember who opened or what songs were on the Murder Junkies’ setlist. Allin wore a black hoodie, his pale ass gleaming under the lights. He paced the stage, drinking beers and throwing the bottles into the audience. He had the frightening intensity of Charles Manson — I recall being too afraid to meet his gaze. At some point, the microphone he ranted into went up his ass. Later, Allin leapt off the stage and began antagonizing the audience at close range. Most of us ran out of the door of the club.

He’d chase us outside, then stop at the corner of Madison and Avalon while we raced to the relative safety of the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. For some reason, that happened more than once. I have no idea why I didn’t just leave at that point, but I kept going back in for more. Finally, Allin chased us out again, and one audience member ran to Murphy’s and came back with a knife. She began chasing G.G., and that was too much for me. I went home, took a long shower, and questioned every decision I’d made in life.

Chris Shaw, Ex-Cult, Goggs
Every time a band goes on tour there are shows that inevitably get highlighted for various reasons — you’re playing with friends, you like the venue, the gig pays well, or there’s promise that someone who “needs to see your band” will be there. Ex-Cult had just released a new record, and so we were working with a new publicist who had promised to gather all her industry friends for a show at Mercury Lounge, the Manhattan venue that is known for being a “music industry hotspot,” whatever that means.

This show was on my radar from the beginning of the tour. We performed in Baltimore the night before, but because of a sound ordinance, we had to soundcheck at some ridiculous time, like 2 p.m. the day of the Mercury Lounge show.

We left Baltimore on time, but to make sure all goes according to plan, I decided to drive into Manhattan. I was driving like a bat out of hell, impressed with my band mates that we are all up and moving, hangover-free and ready to hit New York City. Then my phone starts going off. Repeatedly. I’m driving so I can’t look at my texts. Then our booking agent called,  annoyed I haven’t been answering the phone.

What comes next is something I’ve never heard happen to any other band: A pipe burst in front of the venue, and a rather large sinkhole formed outside of Katz Deli, literally next door to the Mercury Lounge. The show was cancelled. Best of all, the publicist with all her industry contacts has gone AWOL. I don’t hear from her again for the duration of our time in New York City. Maybe she fell in the sinkhole?

Do you remember the scene in Ferris Buellers Day Off when Bueller’s buddy Cameron screams as the camera pulls out to show all of Chicago? That’s how I felt. The show eventually got removed to a lovely little club called Fontanas, but as you have probably guessed, no one came. What doesn’t break you makes you stronger, so when this exact same scenario happened to us a year later in San Diego, all we could do was laugh.

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Music Music Blog

Steve Selvidge on the Passing of Memphis Drummer Harry Peel

Harry Peel passed away at the age of 56.

It’s been a rough week for Memphis music, as Chips Moman and Harry Peel have both passed since Saturday. While Moman sent the Memphis sound around the world, Peel kept the beat on the local circuit, playing the Blue Monkey and other clubs after touring with John Kilzer in the late ’80s and early ’90s. I talked with local guitarist Steve Selvidge to get more of a feel for the man who never missed a beat. -Chris Shaw

Memphis Flyer: What is the first thing that comes to mind when you think of Harry Peel?

Steve Selvidge: Well, first and foremost I think of his groove, and that goes across a lot of different boundaries, both how he lived and how he played.  We talked about grilling as much as we did music, he had a great love for food and cooking things, as do I, and he taught me a lot about grilling.

Not to oversimplify it because he was a big personality, but he just had this magic intangible groove, the simplest but hardest groove. His playfulness and inventiveness behind the drum kit was amazing, but he was a complicated dude, just like any musician worth his salt. After a show or at a party, he and I would be the first to dip out the back and go chill instead of being in the mix and going crazy. We connected on that.

What were you doing before you guys started playing together?

He came to me in such an important time in my life. I was wrapping up with Big Ass Truck and we’d done some things here and there, put out records, and I thought I knew things about music, I thought I knew everything there was to know.

I reconnected with Ross (Rice) and started doing local shows again, but the drummer left us hanging one night, so Ross called Harry Peel, and that was the moment everything changed for me. We started our Thursday night residency at the Blue Monkey, and that led to me playing with Susan Marshall and David Cousar.

All of a sudden I’m playing three nights a week with all these musicians, and I learned so much from those nights. I learned so much about myself playing songs I didn’t necessarily want to play.

I wouldn’t be a fraction of the musician I am today, whatever that is, without Harry. Playing with Harry was invaluable musical education. I was obviously aware of the concept of a local residency because my dad did it for so many years, but it wasn’t until I started playing with Harry as part of this sort of Blue Monkey “house band” that I realized it’s true worth to a musician. And truthfully that was mostly in retrospect.

He made me see the value of playing in that situation, and how playing to a handful of people could be the best experience there is.

Rich Tarbell.

Steve Selvidge.

How often did you and Harry play together?

Three nights a week. I continued to play with Susan and Harry after Ross moved to upstate New York, and we played on and off for about a five or six year period. I just always thought that Harry would be around, we knew he had health problems, but there is this continuum for those gigs, there was no starting or stopping point, they just always happened.

What’s your fondest memory of your time together?

I remember when John Hampton died, I played his service and Harry played drums, and we played the Al Green song “Jesus is Waiting.” Ostensibly it’s a simple beat, but it was just so deep the way he played it, I get emotional just talking about it. I didn’t know he was going to be playing drums until I got there.

Again, the gigs we did at the Blue Monkey, they were weekly transcendence for me, they sent me way up into the stratosphere. We always had a phrase that we shared between the two of us that came from when we were playing a casino gig, just a Biloxi gig that you have to do to make money. We were staying down there, and these two custodians walked by and said “what’s happening ding dong daddy?” We loved that and every time either one of us saw each other it was the first thing out of our mouths. 

Steve Selvidge on the Passing of Memphis Drummer Harry Peel

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Music Music Features

Big Ass Conflict!

My band is playing. You should go.

When I met my bosses at the Flyer, I mentioned that I play music and that eventually there might be a conflict of interest. Well, the mother of all conflicts of interest is here. I play bass in three groups right now. Two of them, Big Ass Truck and Alicja Trout, are playing with Sons of Mudboy on Thursday night at Minglewood Hall to commemorate the local run of Meanwhile in Memphis, a documentary film about the local music scene. You should go.

Big Ass Truck began in the winter of 1992. I left in 1995. But most of the others didn’t. They soldiered on through the rest of the decade. In doing so, Big Ass Truck released five records and developed a fan base that spanned the country. The quality of the recordings and the high level of musicianship spoke to a lot of people over the years. Younger people revere the band in ways that still amaze me. Andrew VanWyngarden of MGMT has cited Big Ass Truck and Steve Selvidge as influences. Half of the members of my other extremely cool band, the Knights Arnold, were fans of Big Ass Truck and would probably not play with me if I had not been a member.

Steve started it. Selvidge had a gig at the Antenna and no band to back him. He was a kid. And, as guitar shaman Rod Norwood will tell you, exactly the type of punk to hoodwink Antenna boss Mark McGehee into giving him a spot even though he was a bandless child.

Steve had the good sense to call Alex Greene, who had played keyboards with smart, important people like Tav Falco and Alex Chilton. Robert Barnett had played drums with eventual Grammy nominee Stephan Crump and founding member of Galactic Rob Gowen. Steve also demonstrated the family brains in getting his friend and creative supervolcano Robby Grant to come on board.

I met Steve a year earlier in a since-destroyed building across from Midtown Huey’s. Winston Eggleston invited me to jam with Steve and Senegal-based math whiz/synthesizer maniac Shelby Bryant. Was it instant magic? I can’t remember. But I’m glad Steve called me a few months later.

Steve’s next move was his Black Swan. Colin Butler is a DJ. But he’s a special sort of DJ: He has a sense of Memphis and a sense of humor that set us apart. He and Greene added dimension that defined our sound and was essential to our success. Any critical references to soul or hip-hop stem from the turntables and the keyboards. They gave us the bigger sound and wider palette we heard from Al Green at Royal Studios and the Beastie Boys’ Grand Royal records.

That first night at the Antenna was terrifying. We played some covers and jammed. I can’t recall any reaction from the audience. But we were fun people with lots of friends, so we were a draw. That got us more gigs and kept us practicing.

Those Antenna shows and the early days in our second home at Proud Larry’s in Oxford are fond memories of really fun times. While bands like the Grifters were being aesthetically brilliant, we were having unmitigated, shirtless (sometimes pantless) fun on stage and around the country. That bothered some serious-minded people. But plenty of people were into the party. Big Ass Truck was a hardworking good-times A-team.

Andria Lisle and Gina Barker (now married to Bryant) ran a record label called Sugar Ditch out of Shangri-La Records. They agreed to put out an EP. Steve led us over to Sam Phillips Recording, where we had the privilege of working with Roland Janes. I’m still proud of those recordings. We liked recording and started experimenting in production with help from Paul Ringger, Posey Hedges, and Ross Rice.

Greene introduced us to the writer Robert Gordon, who had the sense, initiative, and connections to get us a record deal. I remember sitting on the porch of Harry’s across from Ardent with Jake Guralnick saying we could make a real album. That was a special night.

In 1994, I was working at Ardent Studios as a cat dung removal specialist. The studio gave us a deal, and we settled in for a week with Rice, Erik Flettrich, and Pete Matthews. The result was Kent, our first full-length album. We named it Kent after a friend. His name is Kent.

That album represents something of a lost art. We didn’t use computers. Tape is a taskmaster. I remember one grueling dawn when Ross was cajoling me to stay awake during the overdubs of Chris Parker’s “Thermopolis.” We put everything we had into that record.

When Kent came out, we went on the road. I hated touring; so I quit. Within a month, I got fired from Ardent and went back to school. For the next few years it was hard to watch as the band started touring in glamorous places: They played Red Rocks in Colorado and appeared on MTV, which is a thing that used to put music programs on the television set.

The Big Ass Truck bassist job became the Spinal Tap-drummer thing: Subsequent bassists included Lucero’s John Stubblefield, Paul Taylor, Jon Griffin, Dros Liposcak, and Robby’s brother, Grayson Grant.

Big Ass Truck made three more records and amassed a network of fans and friends from coast to coast. Our bandmate and road manager Mike Smith got so good at touring that he went on to manage tour logistics for Widespread Panic. We never would have made it out of the Antenna with out Mike.

But, really, we’re all old and gross now. So we’re grateful that Meanwhile directors Robert Allen Parker and Nan Hackman asked us to play. I’m appreciative of the work the others did and thankful the band called me. It’s not as easy as it was 20 years ago: I can’t remember the songs, my hands are numb, and I can’t wear cool shoes for any extended period.

It’s been fun connecting with old friends and hearing from people who shared our good times. I’m sure the other members have things to say, but they are not the music editor of this paper. Plus, I need to use the remaining space to brag about the Knights Arnold. We are the next big deal. Trust me.