| |
Otis Gibbs
One Day Our Whispers
Benchmark Records
By Dante Dominick
 It's
a wonder more touring musicians don't stop in tiny LeRoy, Illinois
-- they have a Super 8 you know.
LeRoy is also home to Tucker Feed & Supply, a general
store for those in the agriculture sector offering the finest
feed, vitamins and other supplements guaranteed to improve the
quality of your livestock. What with fair season approaching,
the shelves have made room for extra stocks of grooming supplies
as well to propel your horse, cattle or swine to blue-ribbon
glory.
Folks like to chat at Tucker. Sure, business is at hand,
but this is a hub for those in this niche; time to catch up,
elaborate and pass the time with familiar faces. The conversation
is bound to experience a little twist when populist Midwest troubadour
Otis Gibb stops by with his acoustic guitar. Gibbs will take
a seat -- his long hair cascading to intertwine with his scraggy
beard that reaches toward his sternum -- and sing robust songs
about common people, plaintive odes to small towns and hymnal
tomes of solidarity.
This is one visit on Gibbs' "Feed & Seed Tour."
The occasional gray hairs in his beard may be premature, but
they hint to the road experience Gibbs has logged over a decade
of, "praying that the van don't break."
"You end up playing bars for years," he reflects,
"and it seems like there's a certain segment of the population
that you never really reach with your music, and maybe we can
reach some more folks this way."
Sounds fair. So driving alone, over two-lane highways connecting
Illinois, Indiana and Iowa, Gibbs is making stops in towns not
generally on the touring musician's circuit -- like Rabbit Hash,
KY -- to perform at family-owned general stores. Gibbs admits
he has no clue how he'll go over, but is expecting the experience
to be fun for patrons and himself. Moreover, he doesn't see
the whole thing as much of a stretch, "it definitely fits
into my value system. They're all mom-and-pop places; everything
that I am is about neighborhood."
To understand Gibbs' value system, one must consider this:
he is a uniquely positive guy. Granted, he follows a well-worn
trail by waxing disdain on familiar populist refrains: the powerful
elite usurping the true voice of the masses, personal liberties
vanquishing, and, in personal conversation, he laments city sprawl
that acts as a cancer overtaking a more harmonious, sensible
way of life. But Gibbs never panders to a doomsday vision that
things are spiraling beyond repair, "whether it's in a big
city or in a small town you're in a neighborhood, and knowing
your neighbors is real important. We seem to get along no matter
what end of the spectrum we're on politically. You know, neighbors
have a way of working things out."
And Gibbs firmly believes this behavior could be fostered
to spread the world over, and he's quite convincing.
"Karluv
Most" (the opening cut on One Day Our Whispers, just
released by Benchmark Records) is a gem. I had no idea what
Karluv Most meant, nor was I aware the lyrics I couldn't make
out were Czech place-names referring to time spent in Prague.
These details were unnecessary to tap a primal connection within
a greater cosmos. The timid first chords are instantly captivating.
In lilting 3/4 time greeted by subtle steel guitar, we are introduced
to Otis Gibbs' compassionate bellow, embodying a geyser delivering
power straight from the Earth's core, but humbled by the notion
of human frailty:
If you find you're becoming someone you don't recognize
the stars will still shine
on the Charles Bridge tonight.
Lying alone, surveying the ceaseless blanket of stars should
be imperative to human experience. This is the biggest detriment
of uninterrupted city living. Escape the barrier of artificial
lights and the awesome expanse of the universe provides its dazzling
display every night, capable of gobbling up trivial squabbles
with co-workers, the annoyance of traffic, that $50 Doug owes
you. Kind of scary to confront the realization that your life
is a mere cosmic hiccup. But this feeling can act as a re-charge.
A focus that we have something unbelievably special on this
here planet and that special something is shared by every breathing
entity. Without this re-charge, keeping up with the Jones' takes
over our senses.
This seems a bit grandiose; a tad removed from feed stores
and little pink houses. Keep in mind this is a single interpretation
of Gibbs' song. For me, this connection was made instantly.
Herein lies a trademark of a great songwriter: to deliver thoughts
that are specific enough to create understanding, but open enough
for individuals to bring in their independent experiences, inviting
a stronger bond between listener and song. It is these such
songs that you return to over the years.
A mantra to which Gibbs adheres, an attitude surely appreciated
by the patrons he'll meet on this tour, is that he should work
hard at what he does. "We meet people almost every day
that are artists, and we ask them, 'what have you done?' like
a painter, and they don't really have a finished painting. You
think, 'man you should paint, you're an artist, you should paint.'
To a lot of folks being an artist is an excuse not to work."
Admitting he is not the most naturally motivated man, he makes
great effort to write everyday even if no desire is there, "there
are plenty of days where you just don't feel like writing. But
it's important that you do so you can hone your craft, so when
you do have that moment of inspiration, you've developed your
voice enough to where you can actually carry it through to where
it's gonna shine."
Inspiration hit during a lonely evening outside Prague, leaning
on a post on Karluv Most (Czech for Charles Bridge). Where others
experience a flash of realization -- a moment of clarity come
and gone, left grasping to unravel the significance -- Gibbs'
diligence in practice had him prepared. Before the flash could
dissipate to the tip-of-the-tongue never again, it was already
a beautiful song. And I, wholly unfamiliar with lonely nights
in Czechoslovakia, will be moved by his song no matter where
I may be thirty-five years from now, the chorus still drowning
my senses.
Thirty-five years ago, John Fogerty
penned "Fortunate Son." Some 35 before that Woody
Guthrie joined the masses en route to California, struggling
to survive, displaced by the Great Dust Storm only to be met
with ire and disgust. How much has been resolved? Conflicts,
distrust and growing polarity seem to dominate agendas domestic
and international today, so where I am in 35 years is insignificant...where
will the world be?
Gibbs could easily be pegged as following in the tradition
of populist troubadours. "I Wanna Change It" includes
the chorus:
All the great changes in society
start with two people just like you and me
I wanna change it with you.
"The People's Day" makes reference to Sacco and
Vanzetti, Medgar Evars and Ghandi and champions the collective
voice:
One day our whispers will be
louder than your screams
The people's day will come
Naysayers may jeer at the mere fact that there is still need
for similar minstrels so many generations later. Is that alone
not proof positive this ideal is unattainable? Gibbs' optimism
is undaunted. To him, and countless others, seeing failure in
past efforts of a better society is a simple matter of being
blind to reality. Improvements in civil rights, worker's rights
and equal opportunity over the past century are nothing short
of enormous. To this effect, a positive light finds us amidst
a course toward a utopian betterment for all. It is a grave
matter then to ensure we are not strayed from the course. "The
greatest challenge of adulthood is holding on to your idealism
after you've lost your innocence," Gibbs offers. "That's
kind of what we fight and it's my job as a songwriter, or an
artist, whatever you want to call me, to address those things."
All this talk of art and change-the-world activism may seem,
well, out of place with the farming community he will likely
find hanging 'round the feed stores when he drops in. Of course,
social agendas are not the subject of all his material; we're
talking about a guy who writes every day, after all. There's
definitely a lighthearted side to Gibbs. Noble efforts had nothing
to do with his allure for music in the first place. He had a
head-start surrounded by his grandfather's bluegrass band and
his father's affinity for rock and roll, but the final draw was
the realization that girls like guys who play guitar. Ever the
thinking man, Gibbs reasoned that singing is far less dangerous
than football and still worked to attract the gals' attention.
"Daughter of a Truck Drivin' Man," complete with banjo
and mandolin breaks, exemplifies that the quest for amorous affection
is still made easier with song.
Guitar or no guitar Gibbs would feel more at home just hanging
in a rural feed store than he does at a shopping mall. Recalling
his childhood in Wanamaker, Indiana, Gibbs remembers a farmer's
shack outside of town with a cigar box on top of a fridge with
fresh eggs inside. No one ever took eggs without putting money
in the box. No one ever took the money. That farm is now a
subdivision in the suburbs of Indianapolis.
Completely devoid of the laughable Paris Hilton fish-out-of-water
element, the "Feed & Seed" Tour is mostly a story
of an unusual choice of venue, not an unusual fit. In typical
fashion, though, Gibbs sees common ground between the Tucker
Feed & Supply in little LeRoy and the typical late night
bar gig he'd play some 130 miles north in Chicago, "feed
stores are kind of like a bar where people go out and swap stories,
tell lies and hang...not as much drinking goes on, but there's
probably some at some of the places."
If so, no doubt Gibbs will be toasting to his new friends
before leaving for the next town in the morning.
For more on Otis Gibbs' music and his recent release, One
Day Our Whispers, visit www.otisgibbs.com.
Contact Dante Dominick at dominick-at-rockzilla.net
|
|
