ACL 2007: The Duke Gets Baptized

I first heard Steve Earle in 1988. I was 15 or 16, and at the time there was no musical middle: country was getting softer and rock was getting harder. I was neck deep into Metallica tabs when Copperhead Road showed me that music could be warm and organic—as opposed to solid-state and measured—and still rock.

I saw Steve at The Stone, a small club in San Francisco. Small, as in less than 40 people attended. Steve and company must have known the audience wasn’t big, because his band left the night before to prepare for their next show. Steve decided to give an acoustic performance for us in the intimate club.

I knew Copperhead Road well but not much more. He sang about Texas and Tennessee, alternating between guitar and mandolin. He’d tell the small crowd about how these songs were born—sort of a Storytellers session. I was enthralled. After all: I was born in Tennessee; I had lived in Texas.

That night I learned it’s alright to wander, it’s alright to have an accent, not all country is clean and polished, and not all rock is death and despair. And it’s possible to distort a mandolin: not from an overdriven amp, but from an awesome song. Country and rock aren’t mutually exclusive, and together they make a fine dish, as bitter or sweet as a person can take. And it’s possible to serve this meal and still be a bad-ass. I have no doubt that 1988 Steve Earle would kick 1988 James Hetfield’s ass.

Eventually I got a real job and a real love. Music was forgotten and instruments were neglected. Until one day, while driving to work, I realized I can now actually afford things. That weekend I bought a moderately-priced, acoustic/electric Morgan Monroe mandolin. But it needed personality before it could cook.

Robert (childhood friend and former bandmate) and I would always name our important instruments. (My first mandolin was named Juan. That was the name of a pawn shop broker. Being dorks, Robert and I would stare for an hour at the same five crappy guitars. Juan hated us.) Robert and I had long since parted ways. (Funny story: we started fighting during a show and tumbled off the stage.) I forgot the importance of a name. My new mandolin was an infant released from the hospital, without an identity, into the arms of a distant father.

A few months later, I was preparing for ACL. Steve was going to be there, and I wanted his autograph, but I couldn’t decide what it should go on: Not my Guitar Town LP, not a CD insert, not on my arm that I would then get tattooed (yes, I considered that). Suddenly the answer was obvious: the already-gathering-dust Morgan Monroe. Because music was no longer a significant part of my life and future, I had no attachment to this quiet infant I’d been neglecting.

Steve was officially signing autographs at the ACL store-tent, so I didn’t have to do anything dangerous/illegal or questionable/immoral. Next to him was Kelly Willis (the hottie in red). Before signing the mandolin, Steve asked, “Are you sure, man?”

Before the ink was dry, the mandolin had a name: The Duke. And The Duke can cook. Thanks to Raf Rodriguez for taking the photos.

Sep 15, 2007

Photos