Graham Parker

A Howlin’ Wind Still Blows

By Jeff Katz

Back to Schooldays

I admit I wasn’t on board with Graham Parker, or any of the punk scene, until 1980. During the second half of the ‘70’s, I was still filling my collection with Beatles, Dylan, Who and Stones, catching up on a lot of records that were essential to a growing boy’s musical development. A few outriders may have appeared, a stray Elvis Costello album. Maybe. It really wasn’t until I got to college that I opened my ears.

I’m guessing that my first aural encounter with Parker was on WNEW, the New York classic rock station, and it’s almost certain that “Endless Night” was my entry point. What grabbed me, at first, were the straining harmonies of Mr. Bruce Springsteen. Well, if Parker was worth The Boss’ time, who was I to argue? I rushed out to buy The Up Escalator. Parker’s snarl, his nasty yet sensitive lyrics, hit me where I lived back then. It was who I was, at least in my own mind. The outwardly cynical, bitter me covering the inner, shakier me. I was hooked.

Quickly, or as quickly as money would allow, I caught up. Howlin’ Wind, Heat Treatment, Stick to Me, and Squeezing Out Sparks the amazing quartet of albums that preceded The Up Escalator are the solid foundation on which Parker’s entire canon rests. Remarkable records, really, with his backing band, the nonpareil Rumour. A new sound, fresh, fierce, yet like all classics, having a timeless quality as if they’ve been heard before. Powerful rock with more than a hint of ‘60’s soul coupled with Parker’s distinctively nasal voice. He immediately became a top tier, go to listen for me.

The early ‘80’s found Parker taking a more mellow turn. He dropped The Rumour, got married and settled down. Another Grey Area, The Real Macaw and Steady Nerves projected a content Parker, unfamiliar, but resoundingly real. This second chapter of his career was met with a shrug by the record buying public. They missed out; these three albums are wonderful. For the early 20s’ version of me, they hit sporadically, but as the decade went on, and I met the girl of my dreams and married her, Parker was, once again, providing an intimate soundtrack to my own life. Then, after The Mona Lisa’s Sister in 1988, I stopped buying Graham Parker records. Just like that. Why? I don’t know. He was an integral part of my decade.

And now, as Music Editor for ragazine, I found myself in the position of interviewing the great Graham Parker. I had a lot of catching up to do. I didn’t want to be one of those “loved your album from thirty years ago” guys. So I bought most of the CDs I’d missed, listened in a hurry, and got ready to call one of my musical heroes.

Between You and Me

“Graham, here.”

It was him! Curiously enough, he sounded just like Graham Parker. All I had to do was say “hi” and he was off. The man can talk, and talk, and talk. It was hard for me to get my questions in, and, you know what, I didn’t want to. It was fun listening to him, but, hey, I’m a professional (wait, that would mean I’m getting paid!) and I knew I had to cover some ground if I was going to get any kind of interview done.

A self-confessed “nature freak,” Parker has lived in America since 1988. Though most articles place him in Woodstock, which makes for a nice musical connection, he’s in the Catskills, closer to the much less romantic burghs of Kingston and New Paltz and a good 45 minutes from hippie heaven.

He hasn’t forsaken England, keeping a place in London that he rents out (it’s “quite a good earner”). But buying a house in merry old? Out of the question. “You can’t buy a house and land in England unless you’re a member of royalty…or Sting.” Now, that’s a Graham Parker answer – funny, biting, true. In his mountain hideaway, he looks out the window to the trees and ponds that surround him.

Though Parker has railed against American commercialism (listen to “Disney’s America” on 12 Haunted Episodes), he has nothing but affection for the place. America is “THE country, everything goes on here.” Not so in his homeland. Britain is too small minded, a cynical nation marked by a too cruel sense of humor; Americans are more generous. But Parker is under no illusion that his artistic temperament will permit him to settle down. He’s by no means locked in to his present home, his life too fluid for something like that. But, he gladly admits, America is in his blood.

While I tried to avoid the pitfalls of dwelling on his initial breakout records, Parker brought up his time as a “minor pop star” in England. 1976 was his year, the year that he created the angry snarling singer/commentator of the punk movement that Elvis Costello, Paul Weller of The Jam and Joe Strummer of The Clash followed. But when he split from The Rumour after disappointing sales for The Up Escalator, the UK press murdered him and his middle-period, 1980s’ works. I mentioned I loved those records and he was pleased. His only regret for those works was the ‘80s’ production sound, the loud snare drum that particularly marked Steady Nerve.

Parker recognizes that critics saw The Mona Lisa’s Sister as a rebirth, but he doesn’t view it that way. He’s never had a “slack period” in his estimation. It’s just that rock writers tend to be close-minded, stuck on early songs like “Fool’s Gold”. Isn’t that always the case, for reviewers and non-reviewers alike? The music you hear at a formative time in your life, most likely between the ages 15-18, coincides with an overall awakening to new things. It’s no surprise that for John Lennon, Chuck Berry was, and always would be, his favorite artist. You never get past what you hear at a certain age.

Parker covered Sam Cooke on more than one occasion in the late ‘80s (“Cupid” on The Mona Lisa’s Sister and “A Change is Gonna Come” on Live Alone in America). I’d been listening to Sam myself lately and asked him about American soul music. With this question, Parker was off and running on his musical past and influences.

Music happened for Graham Parker at 12 years old. It was The Beatles and The Stones; that was it. It all began when he heard “Love Me Do.” At 15, he turned mod, complete with skinhead haircut, dapper suit and red braces (suspenders). It would seem obvious that he would love The Who, but except for “Substitute,” he didn’t care much for them. It was a strict diet of soul music. By 1965, the music at the local discotechques was exclusively black or Jamaican ska. The clubs were packed with skinheads and their taste ruled. A few white artists made the cut. Len Barry’s “123” got played (much to my surprise). The Spencer Davis Group, The Box Tops’ “The Letter” and “Cry Like a Baby,” also got some spins. Alex Chilton’s recent death had Parker reflecting on his iron clad belief that Chilton was a “black guy” until very recently.

We returned to the subject of soul and Sam Cooke. I mentioned I had been looking at Sam for a future Maybe Baby story. Otis Redding was Parker’s man growing up. Remember when I mentioned the sensitive man beneath the cynic? Well, Redding’s Otis Blue used to make Parker cry, it moved him so. Like Chilton, there was a bit of racial confusion. Obviously Otis was black, but the cover of the album was of a gorgeous platinum blonde, her very appearance at odds with that conclusion.

By the late ‘60s, early ‘70s, Parker was, to my shock, a hippie, before returning his attention to American black music. Then back to soul. Dipping his feet in psychedelic waters led to his musical epiphany. Why not combine the heartfelt, emotional, even danceable gut sounds of soul music with the intricate, smart lyrical sophistication of Bob Dylan? And he pulled it off ! No one was better than Graham Parker when he hit his stride starting in 1976.

At Mercury Records, he encountered real trouble. They didn’t know what they had in their innovative young talent and, as expected in a short-sighted business, spent no money on marketing Parker. If you’ve never heard “Mercury Poisoning” you should. It is Parker teeing off on his first label. His difficulty with Mercury led to what Parker refers to as “a bit of mythology that he had label problems.” It was only at Mercury. In fairness, he points out there was no audience for his music in America circa ’77. Even when he moved over to Arista, and “Squeezing Out Sparks” became a hit, he did three concert dates with Journey!

Parker isn’t complaining about his career path. From 1975 when Radio London played two of his demos, catching the ear of a record company executive, which lead to his first record deal and an escape from his job at a gas station, Parker has been “very lucky.” Each new contract resulted in more money, good money. He never was in danger of going broke. It was luxury, limos and Letterman, until the early 1990s. Looking back, he finds it quite unbelievable that he had all that.

Those days are long gone. Not that he minds. Since starting solo tours in 1989, he’s become his own tour manager, travelling from venue to venue, working with local sound men. He enjoys it much more, in full control of his situation. That’s how a musician makes a living these days. As to records, he makes them and presents them as is to his company. (These days that company is Bloodshot Records out of Chicago). That’s always been the way he’s done it. It’s his music – he gets final word.

His new album Imaginary Television is a concept album, a series of TV themes for shows that exist in the mind of Parker. After attempts to write real themes for real series, only to be rebuffed, GP took things into his own hands and wrote songs for programs populated by conjoined twins, Asians obsessed with snow and father and son car thieves. The songs are typical Parker, from poignant (“Broken Skin”) to reggae tinged (“See Things My Way”). He’s very pleased with the new disc, and for good reason.

Adhering to the strict 25 minute deadline I was given by PR at Bloodshot, I said my goodbyes. He remembered my name at the end, a big ego boost. Now, totally obsessed with Graham Parker, it would be a frustratingly long month until I’d head west to Homer, N.Y., to see his solo show.

Pourin’ It All Out

Center for the Arts in Homer, NY

It’s an almost two-hour drive from Cooperstown to Homer. In daylight it’s tedious (except for a surprising detour in Truxton, the birthplace of legendary Giants’ manager John McGraw. I excitedly pulled off the road for a picture of the monument to the great Muggsy, smack dab in the middle of town). At night it’s pitch black, scary and skunk-scented.

There’s something happening in Homer. What it was wasn’t exactly clear, but it turns out that Cortland State is a mile away, so there’s some college town spill over. The Center for the Arts of Homer is a beautiful red brick church. As co-chair of Cooperstown Concert Series, a great organization without a home base, I was immediately envious. The sign out front proclaimed the appearance of Parker, referred to as a “Rock N Roll ‘Legend.’” Why the quotes around “legend?” Did he not really qualify? Were they being sarcastic?

Inside the church, benign figures etched in stained glass looked down on the proceedings. No vengeful icons with crazy eyes staring with scorn at middle-aged music fans. Graham Parker in a church? An odd juxtaposition. While the altar bore no trace of past ritual, flying high above the stage was a painted white dove.

Parker strolled on stage, a rock and roll ninja in black pajama top and black jeans. Though close-cropped, Parker seemed the same as when I saw him last, in the fall of 1983 at Cornell. He was always an ordinary looking guy, his physical features never so striking that age changed his presentation.

He is clearly a man aware and content with who he is and where he is in his career. Introducing “Pollinate,” he cracked wise about his 50-something audience, driven to passion by this tune. “It’s not a pretty sight.” “Sock ‘N” Sandals” was a gentle poke at the attire of his demographic. Even when Parker played older numbers, he has no desire to look back, either in anger or nostalgia. He’s at ease with his past, comfortable in his present and hopeful for his future.

When we spoke, Graham made a point to mention that he’s a funny guy. The night was filled with humor. He riffed on the severe British voice on his GPS, who threatened a severe spanking when he missed a turn. He assumed Homer was named for the Greek poet, not the cartoon character. A hysterical bit, almost a skit, revolved around “Bring Me a Heart Again.” Parker wished he’d been a guitar hero, a Clapton or Jeff Beck, and struck the proper poses: slow motion guitar thrashing, mouth wide open, tongue lolling. Alas, he realized he’s stuck with passable lead guitar skills, BUT, he was willing to take a solo if the crowd would agree beforehand, to go crazy when he was done. They obliged.

“Hotel Chambermaid,” a Heat Treatment classic, was its own chapter of the show. Turned out, it was covered by Rod Stewart on one of his poorest selling albums, When We Were the New Boys. Graham was determined to get a swimming pool out of the deal, but since it was just his luck that he’d be covered on one of Rod the Mod’s weakest records, the pool ended up very tiny, though incredibly deep. “Only a young guy could write this,” he noted about the sex-soaked song, “unless you’re The Stones writing about mating with teenagers.” That wasn’t the only nod to his early heroes. During the encore, Parker conducted his own celebration of the recent re-release of Exile on Main St. with a killer take on “Shake Your Hips.”

It was a brilliant show, 22 slices carved from a marvelous body of work, in a venue acoustically deep and rich. But Homer, take off those quotes!

Nothin’s Gonna Pull Us Apart

How did I allow 20 years to go by without buying a new Graham Parker album, after all he meant to me? It’s both strange and hard to believe that I could drop him just like that. Well, I’m catching up. As the man says himself, “You better stick to me.” And that’s what I’ll do now.