Hippies No More (page 4)

Drummer Smith is, at first, all that his nickname Frosty implies. That he has no desire to speak with a writer is icily clear from the ignored attempts at conversation, aborted questions, and unreturned smiles. Still, what can you expect from a man whose musical experience spans almost 50 years, and has included everything from studio work in L.A. to gigs with Sly Stone and Parliament/Funkadelic? No doubt those years have included one too many run-ins with cocksure music critics, most of whom boast the musical vocabulary of an organ grinder's monkey.

Although the respectful thing would be not to bother him, journalists rarely do the respectful thing. Besides, if anyone's take on this whole hippie nonsense would be interesting, it would be someone who's lived through that era. McKinney even claims that it was Smith who was quoted as saying the band sounded like a cross between SRV and the Grateful Dead when he first heard them.

That's what writers tend to do, quote people out off context," he says after finally coming down to the room at Walsh's request (thank you, Brian). So, that's not, in fact what was said? He pauses as if to decide whether he will answer the question. "I don't look at the band as a Grateful Dead band," he says finally. And as if baiting me to do what writers do, he adds, "I hate the Grateful Dead."

Initially, he provides no explication for his terse answers. "I don't want to talk about that," he shoots. "My likes and dislikes don't matter. they're like assholes - everybody's got one."

The rapid-fire curtness continues: Why did he settle down with Soulhat? "I haven't settled down," he snaps. He does other projects? "Yeaah, it's what I do," he snaps again. "Alejandro Escovedo. Toni Price. Junior Brown's album, This is just what takes up the majority of my time," he says. And the reason? "Because it's the nature of the beast. It takes a lot of time. We're gone a lot."

But why is the beast not Alejandro or Junior Brown? "Because all those people in Austin generally only work once in a while," he states flatly. "There's no one working constantly. This band happens to work a lot." Is there not a more musical reason to be in Soulhat? "Yeah, it's the only reason I do stuff." but you just said... OK, so what was the spark with these guys? "It wasn't a spark, it was more of a natural progression that just sort of progressed. And that's what happened," he explains in a matter-of-fact manner.

Eventually, though, this matter-of-fact gate breaks down, and Smith gushes forth with articulate insights on music, generations, and his likes and dislikes. But only after he gets his disdain for music critics off his chest. His ire surfaces in his response to the so-called neo-hippie title that has been bestowed upon everyone from Phish to labelmates Spin Doctors and former touring pals Blues Traveler.

"It's very important for the press and people that write to have labels," explains Smith, "because most of the writers that cover music or any of the arts don't have direction without a label. Most of them haven't really studied or know what they're talking about, so you have this group of people asking you questions, taking away form you , and putting it into their own perspective, which can sometimes be very narrow and sometimes miss the mark completely."

Without any prodding, he continues. "So what happened was Rolling Stone specifically called it the new wave, the new hippie movement. They had a name for it. So every fucking writer in the country had a place to go, 'Now we know what thus stuff is, now we have a name for it.' All new bands fell under that category until people had [time] to really look at them and say, 'Oh, well, they're not that now.'"

He does concede, however, that music trends exist based on generational archiving - though that doesn't mean he has to like it. "How many people are at the tip of the cornucopia?" he asks. "Only a handful of people have changed the direction of music. The Miles Davises - those people in rock or music in general who actually take the music and make it go somewhere. The Beatles - they changed the direction. The rest of us are king of following along in the cornucopia of creativity.

"I'm drawing from stuff as far back as the forties 'cause I'm an older guy," he continues. "So all that stuff in the Sixties and Seventies is all blended in there. So you have a new group of people who discover some music now that's 20 or 30 years old, and it's like brand new to them. I mean, I go to the store and hear people saying, 'Have you heard this new band? They're called the Doors." What am I supposed to say? 'Yeah. I've heard the Doors. I could spend hours telling you about them."

He maintains that he respects his own bandmates' musical discoveries because they, in turn, introduce him to music he's unfamiliar with. He sites as examples everything from Ed Hall to Talk Talk to David Sylvian to the Orb. His main criterion for listening to contemporary groups is that he be able to lean something from them. "If there's nothing there for me, I pass on it," says Smith. Like Nine Inch Nails; "it's just stuff I've heard before, so I pass on it, not because they're bad, just because there are no surprises."

Considering he's been around for every turn in rock & roll's pothole-strewn road, Smith's opinions on the subject are strong. "The only thing I heard in the Seventies that was a turn around was David Bowie," he ventures. "That was actually new sounding stuff: new mixes, a glam style, really interesting songs. you know, stuff people didn't sing about, a guy taking his protein pills out in space." He also manages to pluck another act from the stink, listing the Sex Pistols as of of his all-time favorite bands. "Who's beaten the Sex Pistols?" he asks. "Even though Sid couldn't play, you listen to "Holidays in the Su," or some of those songs, and the they're just all out. Nirvana came close on some stuff, but pound for pound no one's beaten the Sex Pistols - just like nobody's beaten the Stones for just solid rock & roll. They play bad, they slow down, they speed up, and here they are, pound for pound hard to beat. I wouldn't want to go up against them."

His take on the current punk resurgence is more social than musical. "I feel this generation doesn't have any martyrs, and they don't have any real heroes," says Smith. "All the other generations I've been through had somewhere to focus their rage. This particular generation doesn't have a focus, so it's turned inward. They're basically mad at themselves. I really don't care to sit and hear somebody say, 'Fuck you, I'm not going to do this. Fuck you, I'm not going to do that.' Well, you know, find somebody who cares, because if you don't, I don't."

The younger members of Soulhat have very obviously been influenced by Smith, which is precisely why his likes and dislikes are relevant. McKinney speaks reverently of Smith's freakiness, and of his decision not to shave his beard until he turns 50. Walsh, who switched from guitar to bass when he joined the band, has undoubtedly learned fathoms about rhythm. Cassis, on more than one occasion, alludes in conversation to things Smith speaks about at length, and with much more confidence.

And then there's the matter of the gris-gris.

"That's the word he's chosen because he's enchanted with that particular genre of stuff," explains Smith. "It could be called totems. It could be called gris-gris, juju, or any of those kind of words. I personally don't call mine any name, because actually it's not. I don't have any potions, or anything." Ironically, Smith will elaborate were Cassis would not. "Whatever you've chosen to focus on, it helps you maintain that focus. So I carry things that are in line with my focus and spirituality - to keep that happening so my lines are open because I'm in a communication kind of business."

Two hours later, Smith sits amidst his elaborate cymbal configuration, bathed in an empyrean light. A big, mystical, cool guy, his sleeveless black shirt exposing his vast tattooed arms, Smith seems to be at the epicenter of the band, the stage, the entire club. True to his word, the band plays like an ensemble, not a rhythm section backing dueling guitars. As Cassis said earlier, traces of Smith's blues influences are noticeable in his playing, but on this night they certainly do not detract from the whole - though McKinney, who's twitching about in the middle of the stage, eyes closed, wild grin, plastered on his face, might. As the band lurches into "Bonecrusher," McKinney bends down to pick up a remnant of last night's Halloween show. Rising, his grin spreads as he sprouts pink bunny ears. Grabbing a pair of fake nose glasses from the soundboard, he finished crushin' bones. For the moment, in control.

Copyright © 1994 the Austin Chronicle

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