The Wake

I’d never encountered a presence of such unwavering intimidation. It may have been due to the fact that the first I heard of Tony Glover was in Bob Dylan’s Chronicles: Volume One. Not only that, but the words with which Dylan spoke of him.

“-And then there was Tony Glover,” he recalled, “A harp player who played with me and Koerner sometimes… I played the harp too … I couldn’t play like Glover or anything, and didn’t try to.” It did nothing but add to my growing feelings of great inferiority when I looked into his work further and found that he, along with Koerner, were respected and revered by all of my musical heroes.

The likes of John Lennon and The Doors were among their legions of fans. They’d played just about everywhere imaginable and seen it all. He played shows with both the Doors and the Allman Brothers Band. He hosted a six night a week radio show, interviewing the likes of Pete Townshend and Eric Clapton. He’d written record and book reviews for the likes of Rolling Stone and CREEM. As if it weren’t enough, I began collecting stories of his rocky past with people in general. He has a reputation as a man with little time for pleasantries. He’s been known to show up just a few minutes before the show, and leave immediately following, so as not be disturbed by pesky bystanders like myself. As I walked alone across the empty Washington Avenue Bridge, I felt a unique combination mounting of joy, excitement and twisting nerves.

I knew that they were playing every Thursday over at the 400 Bar on West Bank, and had been promised an introduction. I paid my $7 and removed my I.D. “Great,” I thought, as the black Sharpie confirmed my under 21 status, “Another way to let these guys know I have no business talking to them.” I went to the bar and ordered up a Red Bull, a surprisingly dangerous move considering I’m usually one to lay off caffeine. As Glover had characteristically yet to show, I was introduced to Koerner first. A musician of high critical stature would never be your guess if you were introduced unaware. To be honest though, I’m not really sure how I would place him. A character unlike any other would be your safest assessment. Not far off from 70 years of age, and there he stood at the bar with a girl, who couldn’t have been older than 25, standing at his side.

Initially, I was quite tense. Just as with Glover, I had first heard of Koerner while reading Bob Dylan’s book. He was the first friend that Dylan made in Minneapolis. “… Tall and thin with a look of perpetual amusement on his face. We hit it off right away.” They played together often that summer and Koerner taught him a lot of songs. Today, Koerner is a physical presence in spite of his gangly posturing, carrying the demeanor of a soft-spoken, yet mischievous teen. His hair is thinner, but his turned up nose and welcoming smile are the same I’d seen in the photographs from the ‘’60s. The bar owner, Tom Sullivan, welcomed him and handed over two envelopes containing both his and Glover’s money for the show. Koerner proceeded to stuff the two envelopes halfway down the front of his pants. I let out what I thought was an inaudible laugh. I found this greatly amusing. Koerner looked over and gave me a small smile and a nod. This was my kind of guy.

The conversation was lively and bounced from topic to topic. I asked what kind of songs they would be playing tonight. “Same as always,” he assured, “about three quarters traditional folk, the rest is our stuff. Some of ‘’em as old as 40 years, some just 10.” On the topic of his history with Glover, he said they started off playing, “southern black guy type stuff.” This comment was an overstatement of epic proportions. They are often credited as some of the first white guys to tackle the blues and their first album doing so, Blues, Rags and Hollers, was a land mark recording. Out in the summer of ‘’63, it would open doors and influence the minds of many of the most heralded musicians for decades to come. Seemingly out of nowhere, the topic jumped to the fact that his cable provider had recently dropped two of his favorite channels. “Sons of bitches took clear out of the blue. I can’t watch too much T.V. anyways; I get bored like an… whatdya call it… attention deficit stuff kid.” Koerner leaned, arms folded over the bar, squinting his eyes in an attempt to decipher the brands of beer he was working with. He decided on a Red Stripe but was nursing a small glass of something else besides. His mannerisms were reserved, yet he always seemed amused by something. His face would light up in excitement whenever the next topic arose. I asked Koerner about a show he had played in my home town when I was a kid. “Well, ummm, I don’t doubt that I played it. To be honest it’s all kind of a blur at this point.”

After 10 or 15 minutes of conversation, I was really feeling relaxed, talking openly about whatever came about. It was at that moment a buzzing of chatter spread throughout the bar. A short man of approximately Koerner’s age appeared beside bar owner Tom Sullivan. I knew instantly who it was from the old photographs I’d seen on the Koerner, Ray, and Glover albums. His jaw was as hard set as it had been back then, accented by the very same scowl. He eyes bore no semblance of intrigue at anything being said. “What the hell do I say to this guy?” I wondered frantically. But I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. “So was it while you were attending the U of M that you and John met?” His head was resting on his hand with his elbow up on the bar. His gaze was straight forward, and his eyes were that of a man both bored and slightly annoyed. After several seconds I thought he would neglect to answer entirely, but then it turned out much worse. “I was never in school.” He responded, barely at an audible level, devoid of any enthusiasm towards continuing the conversation. “Ohh, sorry, what was that?” I hadn’t heard and tried to show I was clearly embarrassed to have to ask again. “I said,” turning his eyes towards me for the first time, “I was never IN school.” This time with bit of snap, and a stronger notion of annoyance. “Wow,” I thought, “I need to change the subject immediately.” Luckily this has always been a strong point of mine. “I was reading that Elektra Records re-released your album in ‘’64 and…”

I was cut short. “It’s Elektra Records … Elektra.” Despite the fact that I’ve read several books on The Doors and claim knowledge far above average on the obscure topic of this very record label, it had somehow come out as “Electrica Records,” or something to that effect. “0 for 2,” said the critics in my head, as I watched Glover turn his gaze lazily back towards the bar.

Things did get better. He was always aloof in his responses, but he started to tell me some stories. When I told him I was here on behalf of a student magazine, he told about the first interview he and Koerner had ever done. It was for a U of M publication called the Ivory Tower in 1962. He told me of how his writing career started with a simple suggestion to a friend. His two buddies Paul Nelson and John Pankake had started a Folk periodical called the Little Sandy Review. Glover had suggested that they start covering some blues, to which Nelson replied, “Man, we don’t know shit about the blues. Why don’t you write it?” He stayed close with Nelson and wrote for many of the same publications. He was one of the first writers Rolling Stone approached when they were starting out in the late 60’s. He told me stories about Jac Holzman, the Elektra Records founder who had signed them. He described Jac as an, “Ivy league type. Preppy sort of guy, real smart business man though.” The story was about an incident in which Jac had been continuously cutting wires in the elevator at his record company so he wouldn’t have to listen to the Muzak. When they installed some heavy duty wires, Jac responded by going onto the roof and “disabling” the antenna.

We had just started talking about some shows they’d played at the Guthrie Theater, opening for the likes of Miles Davis, Led Zeppelin, and The Who, when it was time for them to take the stage. I thanked him as he walked off. I could have listened for days.

As they’ve done a countless number of times, Koerner and Glover took the stage and began to settle in. Koerner would handle all the vocals, as well as all explanations and occasional wise cracks. He started off by explaining a little about their music. He said that the songs he played were often found in old books of taken from records. “The thing about ’60s bar style is that you don’t know who the authors of the songs are. It’s more of a reflection of the culture than it is of the person.” And with that, they hit the ground running. They barreled through several of their traditional favorites. I can’t say with an honest heart that folk’s a genre on which I claim expertise. I can say, however, that the lyrics and the accompanying spirit are relevant to us all. The Woody Guthrie number, “More Pretty Women than One,” holds great pertinence with any U of M attending fellow with a working pair of eyes. The next song bore the chorus “Irene goodnight, and goodnight Irene. I’ll see you in my dreams.” Is there a soul among us who hasn’t dreamed of the unattainable love? The tune after touched on the age old dilemma of, “Can’t live with ‘’em, can’t live without ‘’em.” “And that goes for both the gentlemen and ladies out here tonight,” added Koerner. The song ballooned to its final line of, “Ohhh but when you get lucky, whoa man, reality won’t be unkind.” The two crafty vets then tore into their respective instruments, adding a playful series of “whoops” and “hollers” over the top. Koerner also played the title track off of the solo album he made in the ’60s with Willy Murphy entitled, Running, Jumping, Standing Still. Glover then picked up his guitar and sang an old blues number by Sonnie and Brownie. He had a strong, bluesy voice, which was as well maintained as Koerner’s.

Their on stage banter was hilarious, making odd observations and tossing out random facts and quotes. At one point Koerner began to play morse code in to his Red Stripe bottle in an attempt to see if their were any ham radio operators in the audience. During a stretch of three originals, Koerner started with his “sweetest song,” and followed with his “meanest song.” The first was true to form: an intimate tale voiced in a tone of true serenity. The “mean song” was indeed a polar opposite. Crisp and biting lyrics sung over a vibrant guitar, Glover swooping in to steal the stage midway through. Just before he did, in a display of partnership only 40 years of playing could produce, Koerner cried out, “Look out man!” It proved a deserving warning as I was nearly knocked on my ass. His harmonica took hold and wouldn’t let go; high and fast it flew up over the top, jittering madly, out of control yet still a perfect accompaniment. They stood to resounding applause, but they couldn’t stop yet. We wanted more. Glover started to pack things up while Koerner bowed comically. Koerner would eventually sit back down and grab his guitar, with a reluctant Glover to follow. They played two more together, and then Koerner closed it out on his lonesome. The song was “Rattlesnake,” a tune fans of the HBO series Deadwood might recognize. Koerner sang with an impassioned country howl evoking images of quick draws and whisky bottle brawls. Aided only by the stomp of his foot, he quickly created an aura of complete captivation. I didn’t think things could any better, and then it happened. It was nothing short of a Folk induced miracle. The members of the audience, a solid showing of over-the-hill, white Minnesotans mind you, found the rhythm. They began to clap in unison, adding their shouts of delight. They then started to clap off beat as well, but to an undeniably, sound-enhancing effect. My mind was blown.

Koerner and Glover will be playing every Thursday night at the 400 Bar at least through the fist two weeks of February (likely further). Watching this show, I’d never felt closer to the incredible musical heritage our city claims. I’d invite everyone who has a chance to get out and feel the same.