How I Came to Play, Part 3

Mark Fredrick

1955-2010

 I was playing a solo gig in late 1981, upon moving back to the Madison area after  living in Arizona and Colorado for five years. It was a great gig but a bit grueling; Tuesday through Saturday 7:30 – 12:30. It was mostly unrewarding until the kitchen staff would get out and start hanging in the bar. It was a good life, though. Party ‘til dawn, get up at 3 PM, go back and do it again. People didn’t really pay attention when I played; they were just waiting for a table or trying to have a drink. It was rare that someone actually clapped.  Frequently the room would empty and I’d slip outside or have a drink – or both.

One night I noticed these two guys that were actually looking my way and paying pretty close attention, which happened from time to time. I didn’t pay it a whole lot of mind.

I didn’t really have a show. I had a list of songs in front of me and I rarely knew what I would play next. I suppose I was a bit bored and I was not good at bantering. While I would scour my song list for the next tune I would just improvise on my guitar. I liked doing that and sometimes it actually became the next song. One of these two guys eventually came up to me in my corner spot; a slightly raised platform with a triptych of photos entitled “The Three Stages of Cruelty” on the walls surrounding it. I remember he had a cigarette in his mouth and he looked a little loaded. In a very gruff voice he said, “Hey…I see you can really wiggle your fingers there.”  That was my first encounter with Mark Fredrick.

Then he mumbled something about him and his friend, Dave Fleer, starting up a band that was going to be huge and did I want to try out for lead guitar. “You’ll have to cut your hair though,” he said with a voice that was a concoction of gravel and phlegm. He assumed I already wanted to be in his band.

That’s the way Mark was: gruff, forceful, and ridiculously controlling. He was also a damn good songwriter who had a penchant for rhyme-y lyrics that I mostly didn’t like. His moments of brilliance, however, were brighter than the sun.

He had some unknown quantity of faith in me, however, and I don’t know what he saw. I hadn’t been in a band or played electric guitar for nearly five years. I was rusty as hell and really, not very good as a lead player at that point.  When he gave me a demo tape that they had made with Lance Sabin (a remarkable guitar player who went on to fame with a Twin Cities masked-metal act called Slave Raider ), I knew I could never play like that. But for Mark that was okay. He wanted something different, something new, something groundbreaking. The bassist at that time, Myron Zuidema, a hell of a player with a bit of a mean streak, nearly laughed me out of the rehearsal. He couldn’t believe I was going to play guitar in this band. I’m pretty sure Mark told him to back off; I was going to get a chance. Myron did eventually warm to me although he was replaced pretty early on by Matt Ahrens, a guy who had never played bass but convinced Dave that he was a bassist.

Mark never had any doubt that his band was going to be bigger than the Beatles. I think this was the bar he set for himself and never, ever lowered. He pushed us, sometimes to the brink. We were never totally sure if he was a mad genius or just plain mad. He and Dave played the Lennon-McCartney roles to a “T.” At the time I was bored with that. I was much more of a rocker at heart even though I was playing acoustic guitars as a solo act. It took me a long time to adjust but before I knew it I had cut off sixteen inches of hair, put my distortion pedal away and was playing new wave pop music in Mark Fredrick And…

We suspected that Mark drank a lot more than we even knew.  In the beginning he forbade the use of pot. That was hard for me because I’d been quite a hippie most of my days. Later, Mark would try pot and, like everything he did, he dove in all the way, suddenly hipping himself to Castenada and becoming a deeper, more spiritual person.

Mark married my brother Roly’s ex-girlfriend, Lori Scheidegger. That was a bit of a shock and more than a little uncomfortable for me at times. I just tried to stay clear from all that. They had a son whom Mark loved very much but the difficulties soon became insurmountable and he and Lori divorced. Mark was really flattened by that. He wrote what I consider his best songs then, particularly “What Do I Know,” a track we recorded in our own studio near the end of the band’s days and “Rain on the Pain” recorded at Smart Studios with Butch Vig and Doug Olsen. That one has my favorite guitar solo on it, too.

Mark showed me what it was like to craft a song. Up until that point I considered my songs sent to me and it seemed almost sacrilege to mess with them. He taught me about song structure and how important the departure was. He still preferred the succinct pop song a lot more than I but also made me aware of what constituted good writing. Not to infer that there should be a sameness in music, but an intent to it; a craft. I carry this knowledge still and have been able to apply it to virtually any genre of music.

When we started to record, my knowledge really blossomed. I quickly fell in love with engineering. Mark had experience in all that and I’ll never forget the first session with Jamie Goldsmith in his 16-track studio in Boscobel. This resulted in the “Miss Misunderstood” single for the band. The title is an excellent example of the wordplay that Mark really liked and I felt was so contrived. I never heard music the same way after that first session, however. I learned how important the sounds were to the construct of the song. I learned about sonic spacialization  and began to listen for the reverb on the snare and kick, not just the snare and kick. All these things I may never have learned had Mark not stuck by me until most of my rust wore off.

Mark could write a song almost on the spot. The main idea would get fleshed out in practice and it was frequently Mark who would tell everybody to shut up (really hard for a musician to shut his instrument up – especially the fidgety drummers) while he fumbled around on his keyboard. Then, like magic, it would come. Sometimes one of us would hear an embellishment but usually the whole thing came into Mark’s head like a thunderbolt.

We used to practice in this storage unit on the way to McFarland, situated near some oil tanks. Mark actually came to live in it for a time. He was always down-and-out like that, always behind on his rent, always struggling for money. But his dedication to his music – and his goal – was always 100%. We used to hang out in this little supper club bar called Toby’s. One time we were sitting there and suddenly, Mark told everyone to shut up. He strained his ear to hear Patsy Cline on the jukebox singing “I Fall to Pieces” and spent about the next forty-five minutes plugging quarters to hear it over and over. “Oh shit,” I thought, “are we going to play country now?” That would be like the breaking point. But Mark heard it in his head and forced us all to hit the rehearsal room immediately. About an hour later we had the most kick-ass version of “I Fall to Pieces” that I’ve heard. Later, when we went to record it at Smart Studios, Mark and Dave went to Nashville to meet with the song’s composer, Harlan Howard, to get his blessing. Harlan said it was the best version he’d ever heard next to Patsy’s. He let us have it for 50 bucks and it went on to be one of our best recordings, resulting in a video and staying in the set list for the duration of the band.

That was Mark’s genius and what he imparted on me was his steadfast dedication and refusal to give up. He talked about his rock orchestra ideas up until the end (although Brian Setzer kinda beat him to it). He was always gonna come back… as soon as he got his shit together.

Mark died peacefully at home; a blot clot or an aneurism, I’m not even sure. I will miss him and it’s still hard for me to accept that his vision of the And never came to full fruition. 

The Struggle Against Futility

Last time I wrote about The Falsity of Struggle and how we sometimes contradict ourselves in the messages we create in our music and how that contradiction can spill over into our own psyches; the way we are affected by struggle and the terms we may unnecessarily accept as artists.

This time I want to spill my heart a little bit about another level of struggle that is far more deep and personal.

I was utterly saddened to learn of the death of a very good man, Jeff Hickey. I met Jeff in 2003 and he helped to get Rick’s Café off the ground by delivering them in the city. Not only was he a great guitarist and a compassionate observer of the world, he could get downright ticked off about the state of things. It seemed to me that whenever we spoke, he was a bit deflated, a little down, a little accepting that maybe this whole thing wasn’t going to amount to much. He had a sense of humor, though; there is no question of that. I don’t think Jeff felt like he deserved the Madison Area Music Award that he won for Best Acoustic Album in 2004. He was always a little self-deprecating in that way.  If he was so good, why was everything around him so bleak and why was the world so fucked up? Why couldn’t he seem to do anything about it?

I remember his acceptance for his award. He went on comically about his “beautiful… beautiful… sexy… very sexy wife” and how much he loved her. I don’t remember if he stated it out loud, but there was certainly the underlying insinuation that he didn’t deserve her.  It wasn’t the only time I heard him speak this way. He was serious about honoring his love for his family in his music. I think his favorite one to play was “New Kind of Love,” a song he wrote for his daughter soon after she was born.  He was reluctant to put out more music after his album Loose Ends. I remember him saying this to me, “because then the world gets to judge it.”  Jeff didn’t think he was a special guy at all…which is exactly why he was.

It reminded me of the intrinsic struggle we all face, day in and day out. The one with our existence; the struggle against futility.

I can remember when I was young; an ambitious, though highly undereducated (and under-practiced) musician. I just couldn’t imagine my life going on to completion without some kind of big splash. You know, playing in front of large crowds, traveling, not because of the ego stroke but because it would mean the music mattered. More so, it meant that, just maybe, the music would make a difference to others, even be important in their lives. 

As time went on – and on – and it became apparent that the tour bus was indeed, not pulling up to the door to pick me up, the focus of that lens began to narrow. I used to play a lot of shows at the Riley Tavern in Verona, a small place nestled in the hills far out of the city. Forty people would make the place uncomfortably crowded. It’s the kind of place where you push the pool table aside to make room for the band. Though this was a far cry from the type of performing I had hoped for, I remember taking it very seriously on a musical level. Of course I wanted people to just have fun, forget their troubles, dance, etc, etc. But there was always a serious intent in the music I made. I just couldn’t help myself from wanting to impress upon someone the effect a song could have on a person; the way so many songs affected me and made such a difference in my life. I remember psyching up in my car on the way, warming up my voice but also meditating a bit. “Just one person…” I’d say to myself.

At the same time I was going through a transformation. I was letting go. One day, as I was driving my Union Cab, I gave a ride to a girl I once knew. I picked her up at a rehab center. I didn’t even recognize her at first; nor her I. She looked a little pensive and preoccupied. Finally I asked her if she was, indeed, the girl I knew from several years ago. Yes, as it turned out, she was. She went on to say how she had been listening to my CD the whole time she was going through her own struggle. How it affected her and helped her get through it. She was so thankful toward me. That was it; my artist’s life was complete right there. I had found the one person who validated all my insecurities and struggles. Soon after I started the newspaper and realized I could make a difference in another way. The MAMAs were also opening another avenue of giving back to the community. Maybe we can open a door for some kid who might just go on to make the one song that makes all our lives worthwhile. I let the dream that had consumed my entire life go.

When I heard of Jeff’s passing, and as I fought back the tears I felt for the wife and family he loved so much, I wondered if he had ever had a moment where he realized his music made a difference.  He taught me, in one whimsical acceptance speech, the meaning of family. So in some way, though it’s too late to say it to him, I want him to know that he did matter. Maybe he’s listening in. Jeff, we loved you. And to all the “Jeff’s” out there – keep going man, until you find that one person.

Peace.

Photo by Ryan Walsh

 The Falsity of Struggle

I recently read an online post that went something like this:

“Here’s a notice that no one will read about my upcoming gig that no one cares about at a bar that no one will go to…”

I’m sure many of you saw the same post and can recite it better than I because it actually went on a bit longer.  Although it was kind of clever and a little funny it was also really pathetic and contained more than a kernel of truth. I don’t remember if it said anything about “the money I will lose…” either.

It reaffirmed what I’ve been sensing for some time: That people in Madison’s music scene are losing a lot of hope. Oh, there are plenty of good people and there is inspiring music being made, that’s never the problem.  But oftentimes it feels a bit like a hamster on a wheel.  Things never seem to lead anywhere, there is no “movement” taking shape or any momentum being built. No one seems to notice. No one goes out anymore.  People still bitch about a cover charge that breaks down to 25 cents per hour per musician on the stage. Artists accept that recording music is a losing proposition in a world that wants music for free.

This is especially true for those who don’t have the luxury of having even one member working full-time on promoting the music. Now I know promotion is a dirty word for some, especially those who wish it were still 1977, but we’re not talking about selling out, making it in the “big time” or any of that crap. We’re talking about getting the modicum of attention (and pay) that you deserve. 

Anyone who tells you they don’t care if anyone hears their (performed) music is being less than honest.  Music holds little value without eager ears.  And while it’s true that the mere act of playing and singing can be a catharsis, it’s a real deflator to play for the same twenty friends who came to your last gig and the one before that. If private catharsis were the prime motivator for playing music, why leave the house at all? Even those creating bedroom sonatas dream of acceptance, affirmation or even retribution.

I talk to a lot of people about certain ideas that I have about working to make things easier for struggling musicians. We’re not talking about some kind of welfare, though I am a believer in civic-funded art; Just a systemized, coordinated way to ease the burden of promoting a show or (gasp) working together toward a common end.

A frequent divergence in these discussions goes something like this:

“You wouldn’t want to take the struggle out of it, because it keeps the music honest.”

When things get bad politically I will often hear this one:

“It will suck when things improve because the music is better when things suck.”

Although there is something to be said for passion, I find these arguments absurd, really.  And I’ve heard plenty of angst-driven music that truly sucks.

Do we really sing songs about the injustice in the world, while we secretly wish it doesn’t get any better so we can continue to draw inspiration from our angst?  I have trouble seeing how that is honest. 

Do we fall into a self-perpetuating cycle of personal suffering just so we can say we’re paying our dues? 

If our lives were made just a little bit easier by a mechanism that brought more support into local music would we really have nothing left to “angst” about?

It does seem that these are “easy way out” responses to change. Like a battered spouse we just don’t know how to live or create without the suffering. It becomes cathartic in and of itself, like hanging from ceiling hooks by your nipples.  Okay, that was a bit extreme, but you know?

Somehow, I have trust that it will be a long, long time before the world’s injustices diminish to the point that all music lacks passion – or angst.  And then there’s the mirror image of the argument: Isn’t there plenty of passion in justice and beauty; plenty of angst from having to wage a continuous fight to keep things from slipping into darkness?

Photo by Amy Stein www.portlandart.com

I’ve always been a believer in the concept of things happening precisely when they are meant to.  We’ve been talking about bringing Rick’s Cafe back as an online publication since shortly after we published our last issue in January of 2007.  In fact, we talked about getting the content from our four years of publication archived online even longer ago. At one point I even spent a lot of money getting a shell set up so I could do that. Trouble was, it was so complicated I couldn’t work it and didn’t have the time to figure it out. I guess those folks made their money off me precisely when they were supposed to.  This time, however, I will make my promise that, yes, all of our content from Rick’s Cafe will show up here. This includes over 300 CD reviews.

After all, Local Sounds is about preserving Madison’s musical heritage (as you can read here). Take some time to check out the Local Sounds Wikis and help us accumulate our musical heritage. The information that is added by first-hand knowledge, the more accurate this will be.

So what happened anyway? Well, 2006 was starting to look pretty rosy for us, actually. We were breaking new markets in the Fox Valley and in the LaCrosse area. We had a huge, loyal and inspired following. But in that summer the gas prices spiked and began driving a nail into our already meager condition. Later, in November, I managed to cheat death (yet again) when I crashed my station wagon into a semi at 60 mph as I was heading out of Janesville in terrible weather. I was going too fast, making deliveries for a distributor who didn’t show. I was mad and I didn’t care. Fuck it, let’s hit a semi! After I spun out and time went into slow motion; after I hit the truck, then spun two or three times on the Interstate, miraculously avoiding a  collision with anyone else; after I landed in the median without rolling, I looked at my hands and realized I had survived. Then I looked out the window and saw my precious Rick’s Cafes all over the road. I struggled to get out of my now-accordioned vehicle to get them because goddammit, I had deliveries to make! I knew then that I had a problem. I finally admitted to myself, right then and there, that I had pushed myself too far. One issue later, I pulled the plug before my own plug got pulled for good.

Of course, as all senseless obsessives do, I began to miss it. I searched the Yellow Pages for AA for Music Obsession. Finding none, I immersed myself in other work and began catching up on a lot of other things.  My wife (and Rick’s Cafe copy editor) Kate and I bought a house and finally took our honeymoon to Ireland in 2008, two years after our wedding. She was already pregnant with our second daughter.

The one thing I didn’t do was walk away from my commitment to the MAMAs. Anyone in their right mind, with a family as beautiful as mine and just after a close brush with death, would not want that kind of stress in their life. But as I watch the show unfold from the wings, I realize that all I really want out of life is to know that I’m useful.

So this spring we reconvened the old writing team: Tim Thompson, Kiki Schueler, Sean Bunny, Blunt Rapture, Susan Masino and webmaster Matt Jacoby. It felt good to have us all together again. As we talked and drank some brews at the Brass Ring, the time seemed right to pose the question: should we do this? We’re all too busy now for such strict deadlines but maybe there is a way to do this online. It can’t be a printed newspaper, but we sure as hell can pick up the slack and give others what we all wanted as performers and fans ourselves: a fighting chance to feel useful.

Big props to Matt Jacoby for his perseverance on establishing Local Sounds. His work is vitally important and it’s his efforts that have made this new publication possible.  The importance of his work will be made more clear as we carry on with this publication, the LocalsSounds.org efforts and the MAMAs.

So, here we are. We hope you like what you see. We’ll sprinkle in some of our unfinished business with our new business. A lot has changed in a few short years. Things feel like they’re swinging up again. We’re a nonprofit now and, for the time being, we’re volunteers and you are the cause. We’ve tried to make it function like a magazine and, aside from news and live shows, will be posting batches of new “issues” from time to time. Precisely when they’re meant to be.

Peace,  Rick