Casey Jones defines his own name
by John Sewell
Being named Casey Jones is a lot like being called Paul Bunyan or John Henry. The first association is (natch) the legendary railroad engineer, Casey Jones, who piloted the ill-fated Engine #382 in one of the most famous train accidents of all time, sacrificing his life by steadfastly remaining at the railroad brake in the face of assured destruction. And then there's the obvious Grateful Dead connection. "Casey Jones" is one of the Dead's most loved and memorable songs—a catchy little ditty that sticks to the basic songwriting components without veering into the usual psychedelic miasma. Which leads us to Casey Jones, the Knoxville musician. Casey Jones really is his name by birth, and he hopes to start his own legend.
"It's really funny about the name," says Jones. "Because sometimes people come out to see me thinking that it's going to be a Grateful Dead cover band. It's just my real, actual name. But I've had people come out hoping to see a Dead cover band, and they actually ended up enjoying it and staying through the whole night. That's kind of cool."
The Casey Jones/Grateful Dead connotation is somewhat fitting because, though Jones may not exactly fall into the groove continuum, his music is deeply rooted in the sounds of the '60s and early '70s. If you go to one of Jones' shows, you'll surely see some of the neo-hippie, Birkenstock set in attendance.
"Most of my music is really influenced by the greats of the '60s and '70s: the ones that lived fast and died fast," says Jones. "People like Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, all those big names from that era—they're the ones that had the most impact on my sound. So I kind of feel like sometimes their spirit comes through me when I'm playing my music.
"The easiest way to describe it is to say it's really a grass roots sound," Jones continues. "I try to make it down to earth, with a sort of folk feeling. But there's a rock 'n' roll thing in there, too. And I totally love Bob Marley. So I'd say it's kind of a mix of rock, reggae, and acoustic folk."
The twenty-something Jones is not a neophyte to the music of the peace and love generation. His introduction to the sounds of the '60s came from living in a household where music was a constant presence. "My parents were always listening to old Motown records, James Brown, and things like that. I'd listen to their old albums and that stuff just always kind of stuck with me."
Playing in the Knoxville area steadily for almost eight years, Jones usually appears as a solo performer. He also gained attention locally as a member of the now defunct Difficult Children. Jones is often accompanied by friends, and he's been known to sit in on other people's sessions as well. This kind of intermingling comes easily with a style of music that is personal, organic, and usually acoustically produced.
Jones communicates a wide range of emotion in his introspective and sometimes moody songs. "I just sing about whatever comes along in my life," says Jones. "It could be a song about a cat or something serious like the state of the world. Anything or anybody that comes into my life could be an inspiration: friends, family...
"I'd just say that when I play, I feel an energy rising up—kind of like trying to push my feelings out to others. Sometimes it's really sad and other times it's happy. Like most music, it can move you if you let it."
Like most musicians who make it beyond the garage, Jones has hopes of expanding his music and bringing it to a wider audience. Beyond the local area, Jones has played in Key West, Chattanooga, and both Carolinas. "Playing out of town is something I want to do more of," he says. "I'd like to get out of Knoxville for a while just to see what would happen. I've always wanted to take this to another level. That wouldn't suck, that's for sure."
Though he may widen his horizon a bit, Jones is still focused on playing in Knoxville and keeping the local scene vibrant. "It always hurts when we lose a venue in this town, and the loss of Bird's Eye View was really tough on everybody," says Jones. "I've played here in Knoxville for a long time. And every time another place closes down, it hurts everyone because that's one less place for people to get together. It's bad for all of the struggling musicians."
Jones plans to continue performing as a lifelong pursuit. "I'll play until my hands fall off or until I get arthritis," he says. "I'm definitely in it for the long haul, whether or not I ever make any money doing it."
Ever the optimist, Jones sees music as a unifying presence that can break down the unspoken divisions in society. And of course, this way of thinking is best applied on a local level.
"People walk around all the time saying Knoxville sucks—that there's nothing to do in Knoxville," says Jones. "Well, my question is what are you doing about it? If you're not helping things, then you're just part of the problem.
"I think that the musicians, in this town and everywhere else, should focus on getting together and learning from each other instead of gossiping and backbiting. Nobody is better than anybody else. If we can bring the scene together, it will be better for everybody. We should all bring each other up instead of tearing each other down all the time.
"There's so much competition in music, and it can get petty. Instead, everyone should help each other. If you move up the ladder, reach back and grab a few more hands and bring them along with you."
March 9, 2000 * Vol. 10, No. 10
© 2000 Metro Pulse
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