Metro Pulse/Gamut/Scott Miller

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What:
Scott Miller and the Commonwealth with Kim Richey and Nug Jug

When:
Thursday, June 21 at 5:30 p.m.

Where:
Market Square

Cost:
FREE

Scott Miller and the Commonwealth
Thus Always To Tyrants (Sugar Hill)

Scott Miller is not a great Knoxville songwriter. He's not a great Tennessee or Virginia songwriter. He's not even a great Appalachian songwriter, although that's getting closer. No sir, he's a great American songwriter.

Call that hyperbole if you want, or myopic hometown music-crit inflation. I don't give a damn. If I lived in Montana or Montgomery or Lake freakin' Tahoe, I'd still tell you this is a great album.

Is it better than the V-roys? Wrong question. It sounds different, for sure—more varied musically (with backing ranging from Tim O'Brien's stark fiddle on the Civil War plaint "Highland County Boy" to John Davis and Don Coffey Jr. of Superdrag on the very next track), but more singular in voice and vision. The best songs are as good as the best songs on either of the 'roys releases, and the weak songs...well hell, there aren't any weak songs. Not one. Even the garage-rock cover tune (the Nuggets nugget "Miracle Man") and the funny one with the spoken-word parts ("I Won't Go With You") register as raucous, pointed rock 'n' roll.

Miller, a native of the Shenandoah Valley, talked for a while about putting out a Virginia-themed concept album. You can hear pieces of it here, in the bookend tracks that open and close the record (the raggedly glorious "Across the Line" and the humble neo-gospel of "Is There Room on the Cross for Me?") and the back-to-back Civil War folk songs at the record's core. But he obviously had too many other ambitions to confine himself thematically. It does have a narrative arc of sorts—as he's put it, "leaving Virginia, coming to Tennessee, and going from a boy to a man"—and it is loaded with history, personal and political, and the ways they intersect. But whether or not you can fill in the details between the lines of, say, "I Made a Mess of This Town" doesn't matter a bit—the regret and (frankly) the sense of satisfaction it carries are universal, and so is the way the tension of the verse resolves into the rocking abandon of the chorus.

Musically, besides the aforementioned highlights, you've got your Replacements-ish rock ("Absolution," "Goddamn the Sun"), your honky-tonk swing ("Loving That Girl"), your Springsteen-style meditation ("Daddy Raised a Boy," although Bruce has never revealed this much of himself), and your unaccountably great pop-rock ("Yes I Won't").

And did I mention he can sing? Man, can he sing. He sings like the Beatles would have sung if they'd listened to Bill Monroe instead of just the Everly Brothers. It's an Appalachian voice, ridgy like the mountains and deep like the valleys. Oh, and he's even better in concert.

—Jesse Fox Mayshark

Scott Miller opens up and cracks wise

by Adrienne Martini

For those new to town, the V-roys (Miller, Jeff Bills, Paxton Sellers, and Mic Harrison) were one of the foremost rock 'n' roll bands in the region. Steve Earle heard their music, took the band under his ample wing, and produced two great records—Just Add Ice and All About Town. A couple hundred shows later, after playing their traditional New Year's Eve gig, the 'roys broke up just as the new millennium dawned. Harrison, Sellers, and Bills formed The Faults a few months later. And Miller landed a deal with Sugar Hill for a solo album, Thus Always to Tyrants, which came out on June 12.

For me, one of the more rewarding things about moving to this corner of the southeast was getting to see the V-roys live. Here was a band that played with singular drive, passion and focus, rock that could suddenly make you believe in rock again. After the break-up, it seemed that these guys had given up on something remarkable. But that turned out to not be the case. The Faults are still kicking rock butt. And Miller has found a deeper voice, one that is sheer joy to hear.

Which is where it gets complicated—somewhere along the line, Miller and I developed a friendship. It's really hard to write about someone you've become friends with, which is then doubly complicated by the fact that you both tend to drink yourselves legless when in the same room, making more traditional interviews difficult at best. And then there's the whole question of propriety, whether it's good form to write about a friend who also has something to promote. What happens to my last shreds of credibility—to say nothing about the last shreds of my liver?

Screw that. It would be a disservice to anyone who loves great music to say nothing about Miller and the phenomenal new record. And equally lax to not promote a free show that should be full of energy hot enough to blister paint. But rather than impose my own impression of who Miller is upon the unsuspecting reader, I thought it might be more fun to toss questions his way through more modern and electronic means, which proved to be more interesting than I originally envisioned.

How has your life changed since the V-roy break-up?

No dry cleaning.

Everything else is the same road in a different kind of car.

What scares you most about releasing this album and what's it like to be in this limbo before it is released?

This "limbo" as you call it is a peaceful time. My job for the moment is done. I made the record and did the best I could: arrangements, productions, players, songs, playing, mixing, mastering—all with the help of a lot of people. It took almost a year and a half from concept to fruition—that was the stressful time. There's not really much I can do now but rest up and get ready to go on the road, sing these songs every night and mean it. I better have some God damn fun in there somewhere or this is all a waste of everybody's time.

Who are the Commonwealth?

The question should be "WHAT are the Commonwealth?"

The "commonwealth" is anyone and everyone that helped me get this record finished over the last year and half. There is no way I could have done this record alone. I had the songs and an idea of what I wanted to try and do, but starting from inception (Bob Kirsch at Welk, my publisher) to RS Field, who produced it, to Jim Demain, who engineered, to my career guidance counselor, Brad Hunt, all helped. The business is a big machine filled with money and egos, and that's quite a damn minefield to negotiate, especially for a social retard such as myself.

The players play [a] major part, obviously (and the ones we had were top notch—Dave Grissom, Tim O'Brien, Mike Briggs, Gregg Morrow, Eric Fritsch, Chris Carmachael, Dirk Powell, Dave Roe, Don Coffey, Jr., John Davis.) and the players who I will take on the road with me when the record comes out: Jimmy Lester, Jared Reynolds, and Rob McNelley. Prince Charles told me to never drop names...

Some of these guys are more well known than others, but all played with feel and focus and listened to what I wanted to try. If the record succeeds it's due to them. If it fails it's due to me. But the definitions of those two terms are subjective. I think it's succeeded just because the son of a bitch was finished.

Why are you still in Knoxville? What keeps you here?

Because I don't want to move any farther west. Not even Nashville, thankyouverymuch. My folks are in Virginia and they're not getting any younger. Life in Knoxville is cheap, easy, familiar (it is the capital of Appalachia, not Asheville) and the friends I have here, I'll never have any better. I wouldn't trade them for anything anywhere anytime.

What's it like playing in Knoxville versus, say, Lexington or Baltimore or Austin? And how has Knoxville shaped your work?

I first knew that Knoxville and East Tennessee audiences were "different" fairly early on. When I first moved to town and got my regular show at Hawkeye's it was quite evident to me the very first night. When I started getting opening slots (mostly because I was solo/acoustic and cheap) at places like Ace of Clubs or Club Taboo (the old Ella Guru) and got to meet "professional" musicians from out of town (Joe Ely and Warren Zevon are two that come to mind because they commented on the Knoxville "crowds") I got to see it from another side.

I think East Tennessee audiences are fickle in all the right ways. Some of them have driven through dry counties to come and have a good time. Some of them have heard of you somewhere, somehow or they wouldn't be there, and all of them are laying down their hard earned pay and they want something for it.

You want to piss off a Knoxville audience? Tell them you got too drunk in Nashville the night before and you're too tired to give them a good show. People in these parts have what is called a "work ethic," it's a rare thing nowadays anywhere. They work hard and they expect their entertainers to do the same.

I think that attitude was one of the main reasons the V-roys did so well in so many different parts of the country. And as much as I or any other of my bandmates liked to bitch and moan, out of hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of shows—never once did I not see all of those guys give it everything they had. No matter what. And if you can do that in Knoxville and not fake it, they maybe/might/possibly come see you again.

How does that compare to other towns? Well, Nashvillians are jaded, New Yorkers can't be shocked, Austintonians are mostly high, Chicago is fun as hell as long as its not 20 degrees below zero, and Hattiesburg, Miss., is the craziest town in the lower 48. But it doesn't matter. You do what you do and make sure it comes from your heart. And that's all you can do. That's what Todd Steed, R.B. Morris, Roy Acuff, Don Gibson, the Everly Brothers, Superdrag, the Taoist Cowboys, Dolly Parton, and any other East Tennessee entertainer that I can't think of right now (it's late as I type) does.

YOU CAN'T SHAKE KNOXVILLE. I don't see any reason to try.

Who do you listen to, record-wise? What's in the van's tape deck right now? In the CD player?

The longer I play music the more I like talk radio. Sports talk and G. Gordon Liddy never sounded so good—although Dr. Laura wears me out. "My moral dilemma is...."

My moral dilemma is I rarely pull out my records anymore, but I do. I still have a turntable and use it. (Like most people, my attention span is made for an album side) Usually it's late at night after I've come home from a night on the town, which is rare because its only lately that I've been home and able to romp round K-town and annoy everybody.

It's like a big trade, you take something you love (music) and do it for a living. Nothing is fun all the time.

I often wonder if people who make movies can stand to watch them anymore, or even television actors for that matter. Fortunately I've not become that jaded.

In the van is The Who Live at Leeds and/or Tom T. Hall's Greatest Hits. In the CD player are Neil Young's On the Beach, Otis Redding's Complete Dictionary of Soul and a gospel CD Shane Tymon compiled for Xmas gifts...and I only play any of them when I'm ready to really enjoy and listen to them, not pick them apart. When I do listen to records it's like going to church sometimes, you just try and lose yourself in it.

How do you feel about all the attention, like from the media and/or fans? And how do you keep your head checked?

I'm a social retard, can't remember names but never forget a face, which many folks take as being snobby. What can you do?

And as far as keeping in check, I have a very smart-assed older brother. He may be "proud" with what I do, but never "impressed." He's seen me go through all stages in my life (well, not yet he ain't) so he's definitely got my number. And my parents don't like any of it. Charity starts at home, doesn't it? Besides, who says I'm a pleasure to know anyway?

The media is a different story altogether. Some of them don't give a rat's ass. They're burned out on music or journalism in general. I guess you're supposed to steer them in the direction you want, in the same way you try to get your record to, or your live show, but they generally ask the same questions with the same passion that Presbyterians recite the doxology, like a death dirge.

The record label will try and generate all the hype, glitz and folderol they can, and in six months the record could still be dead in the water—it's a million seller: there's a million of them in the cellar.

All you can do is try and please yourself. "Fuck 'em all but six," as they say. But if I didn't want the attention I could record at home and make tapes for people. I obviously haven't taken that path lately.

What's the one question you are sick to death of answering?

"What's is like to work with Steve Earle?", but the V-roys benefited so much from our working with him, it's like a penitence. We got to start on second base in many ways that other bands didn't. There were also downsides. It was like having to go to high school where your father teaches.

I feel so lucky to have gotten this far and do what I love for a living. I look at every record as the last one I'll get to make and every day one less day I have to have a regular job. I'm quite paranoid but I'm sure it will all end any day now. So I try not to bitch.

What's the best thing about what you do?

I set my own goals, I get to travel to places I never thought I would see, and I have lots of time to drink.

The worst?

I set my own goals, I get to travel to places I never thought I would see, and I have lots of time to drink.