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ENLARGE
I remember him as being generous.
He bought all the rounds that rainy day in Bangkok, tipped the bartender, told great stories. I'm not sure if I believed them all. He couldn't remember my name.
I am listening to another one of his songs a decade and a half later, riding in his car on an “Empty Highway.” He's driving into the sunset, turning another page; the same guy, even more reflective now. A lot has occurred since I was introduced to Roger Clyne.
“I'm still on that journey,” he said. “A few more years and a lot more miles on the speedometer. I coming to terms with the truth of my life from a person who's put 40 behind me.”
It was cool to ride shotgun with Clyne, Arizona's long-haired version of a Springsteenian rock poet too humorous at heart to be too poignant.
He gained national attention in 1996 with his band the Refreshments and the radio-video hit, “Banditos.”
He's had six records since with Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers, all pretty successful in sales and popular with his arcane followers.
Clyne has a penchant for an observation that will resonate all the way into your soul or funnybone, and a tune that will stay in your head forever, like those first 17 notes of Bob Marley's “Redemption Song” or the chorus of “Mekong,” that story of toasts in Bangkok: “Here's to life.”
“I do love the journey,” he told me. “There's not quite as many rainbows and pots of gold as I thought, or maybe they're just a little different, but it's still really rewarding.”
He continued.
“Most celebrities look bigger than they really are. They kind of look more rich and famous than they are, and I'm kind of neither, but I'm happy. It's all good. It is a cool thing. It's kind of a point of pride to be a blip on the charts every once in a while. But what's more important is just the music and that it has a place with the people. I'd really rather be known as having a nice, long career that people could look back on and enjoy. A career that meant something to the people, more than it did for the industry, where the true endurance of art will show its mettle.”
I said, “Your music, I guess I call it Southwestern Americana, has a little of many of things: rock, calypso, reggae, mariachi and blues. I know it's not 12-bar blues but, to me, blues is emotion, and you know how to get to it.”
“Blues and soul,” he said, “a lot of critics think it's a mutually exclusive realm. I'm trying to put it all in there. It makes a bigger canvas. It makes it more fun, more challenging, too.”
“I only have that first Refreshments album and your most recent, ‘Unida Cantina.' ”
“Well, you have the bookends.”
“To me, your new song ‘Empty Highway' is about the character in ‘Mekong' from all those years ago and who he is today. Am I on the right track?”
“You are, sir, and one of the very few people to detect that. ... It's a song about disillusionment in a good way.”
We ended our conversation. “I'm going to have to get all your CDs I missed.”
“If you will allow me, I'll mail them to you. I'm an indie songwriter and one of the cool things about that is I don't have to ask a record company for permission. What's your address?”
Clyne and the subject in his story are one and the same. He really is generous.
He bought all the rounds that rainy day in Bangkok, tipped the bartender, told great stories. I'm not sure if I believed them all. He couldn't remember my name.
I am listening to another one of his songs a decade and a half later, riding in his car on an “Empty Highway.” He's driving into the sunset, turning another page; the same guy, even more reflective now. A lot has occurred since I was introduced to Roger Clyne.
“I'm still on that journey,” he said. “A few more years and a lot more miles on the speedometer. I coming to terms with the truth of my life from a person who's put 40 behind me.”
It was cool to ride shotgun with Clyne, Arizona's long-haired version of a Springsteenian rock poet too humorous at heart to be too poignant.
He gained national attention in 1996 with his band the Refreshments and the radio-video hit, “Banditos.”
He's had six records since with Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers, all pretty successful in sales and popular with his arcane followers.
Clyne has a penchant for an observation that will resonate all the way into your soul or funnybone, and a tune that will stay in your head forever, like those first 17 notes of Bob Marley's “Redemption Song” or the chorus of “Mekong,” that story of toasts in Bangkok: “Here's to life.”
“I do love the journey,” he told me. “There's not quite as many rainbows and pots of gold as I thought, or maybe they're just a little different, but it's still really rewarding.”
He continued.
“Most celebrities look bigger than they really are. They kind of look more rich and famous than they are, and I'm kind of neither, but I'm happy. It's all good. It is a cool thing. It's kind of a point of pride to be a blip on the charts every once in a while. But what's more important is just the music and that it has a place with the people. I'd really rather be known as having a nice, long career that people could look back on and enjoy. A career that meant something to the people, more than it did for the industry, where the true endurance of art will show its mettle.”
I said, “Your music, I guess I call it Southwestern Americana, has a little of many of things: rock, calypso, reggae, mariachi and blues. I know it's not 12-bar blues but, to me, blues is emotion, and you know how to get to it.”
“Blues and soul,” he said, “a lot of critics think it's a mutually exclusive realm. I'm trying to put it all in there. It makes a bigger canvas. It makes it more fun, more challenging, too.”
“I only have that first Refreshments album and your most recent, ‘Unida Cantina.' ”
“Well, you have the bookends.”
“To me, your new song ‘Empty Highway' is about the character in ‘Mekong' from all those years ago and who he is today. Am I on the right track?”
“You are, sir, and one of the very few people to detect that. ... It's a song about disillusionment in a good way.”
We ended our conversation. “I'm going to have to get all your CDs I missed.”
“If you will allow me, I'll mail them to you. I'm an indie songwriter and one of the cool things about that is I don't have to ask a record company for permission. What's your address?”
Clyne and the subject in his story are one and the same. He really is generous.
