Johnny and Me

For some reason this morning I woke up remembering Johnny Cunningham, the renowned Scottish Fiddler and producer who passed away a few years back. It was as if I heard the distant voice of his fiddle, calling me from my bed on this gray and rainy winter’s dawn (of course, if Johnny was awake at dawn, it meant he had not been to bed yet). I was lucky to have the great pleasure of knowing Johnny. Not that I was by any means a big player in his life, because he had a very big life that touched countless people. He was like giant ship; like The Queen Mary passing through the harbor. I was fortunate to have been invited onboard for the music and booze-cruise, between roughly '88 and '94. I can say without hesitation that Johnny was the most gregarious, funniest, most musical soul I have ever had the pleasure to get schnockered with. In a word, he was jolly. I was deeply saddened to hear of his passing in December of ’03, but for whatever reason, I have not really reflected on what Johnny Cunningham meant to me until now. Call this the memoir long overdue.

I met Johnny in 1988 while engineering a studio project for The Raindogs. They were an all-star band made up of Rhode Island singer/writer Mark Cutler, Bassist Darren Hill and drummer Jimmy Reilly, both formerly of Red Rockers (remember that one ‘80s hit, “China”?), and Johnny on fiddle. They were a really great band, too, infusing American blue-collar rock with Celtic overtones. It was like Tom Petty meets Bruce Springsteen meets Bob Geldof meets Elvis Costello and they all get drunk with The Pogues. We were tracking a label demo at Newbury Sound, paid by and for Sire/Warner Brothers and produced by Andy Paley. Ultimately, they did NOT sign with Warners, mostly due to Paley’s Specter-like overproduction being a mis-match for the more organic Raindogs, so the tapes I tracked have never seen the light of day. Their LP “Lost Souls” was released a year later on Atlantic, and is a wonderful album.


Dog Days: Raindogs '88, with Johnny as Top Dog in this promo pic.

Suffice it to say we recorded hard and played hard. After Paley’s departure from the studio every night around 1 am, the real party began, revolving around a glass-top table in the studio lounge. Hey, it was the ‘80s! I joined right in and partied with these guys ‘till dawn every night. As the beers flowed and in a haze of cigarette smoke I became drawn to the two Celts of the bunch: Jovial Johnny and his hilarious Scottish stories, and Jimmy, whose tinny Belfast brogue became less decipherable with each passing beer. I learned that before he was in Red Rockers, he was the drummer in Stiff Little Fingers, the seminal Irish Punk band. In fact, Jimmy’s brother had been murdered in an Irish political thing. If I recall correctly it was IRA who killed him, and they had a big benefit concert on his behalf at a football stadium in Ireland. This was ’79 or ’80. Stiff Little Fingers had headlined, and included on the bill was a rising young Dublin group called U2, playing their very first stadium show ever. Jimmy was a funny bastard, in a harder-edged sort of way. You got the feeling he could guzzle kerosene if someone dared him too. You also knew that crossing Jimmy would lead to lost teeth. He was a tough Irish street kid, y’know? One funny note: His Ulster accent prevented him from pronouncing my name properly. They can’t say the “oooh” sound. So, “Drew” always came out of Jimmy as “Dree”. “Dree, kedja add a bitta lew end t’me keck-dram?”

Johnny, contrarily, was round. He was warm and welcoming. He told jokes and stories so funny you’d wet yourself laughing. Being of Scots heritage myself, I was really drawn to his Scottishness. And by that I don’t mean just his accent, which was wonderful and lyrical; it was his wit, his charm, his way that got me. He had the soul of a Scotsman. It was the way he could drink anybody under the table and still play like a champ. It was the twinkle in his eye. It was his bawdy tales. It was his mischievousness. Mostly though, it was the way he could make you feel like a welcome special friend, even though he was immensely popular. Johnny was the life of the party. Everybody loved Johnny and wanted to be Johnny’s friend. I wanted to be Johnny friend.

At one point, Johnny's brother Phil appeared all the way from, I think he had been in Ireland, and the brothers played an impromtu trad performance after hours, Phil on the studio grand piano and Johnny on his fiddle. Amazing!

Shortly thereafter, I got him to co-produce and play fiddle a song of mine called, “I Can’t Get Over You”. I say I “got” him to, but the truth is he was happy to do it, and charged me nothing. We spent a day in the studio together and he really helped me bring the song together. Not only did he play a couple of brilliant fiddle tracks, pretty much in one take (which I learned was typical), he helped me mix the song and provided some nice insight. I learned how to record fiddle with Johnny. But it wasn’t a great song and I never really did anything with it. All I have now is a cassette copy. (My guitar-playing, which I had recorded before Johnny’s involvement, was rushed and sort of ham-fisted).

Later, as luck would have it, we ended up being neighbors. When I moved to Oak Square in Brighton in 1990, Johnny lived in Newton Corner, about a mile up the hill from me. Brighton had lots of Irish Pubs, but the one we ended up at the most frequently was The Green Briar. They had a popular Irish Seisiun there every week, so he sometimes sat in. Other times, I’d find myself sitting on a bar-stool next to Johnny, just drinking and laughing and smoking and soaking up his vibe. Once, I even got invited to a Scottish breakfast at his place in Newton. Jimmy was there and I don’t remember who else. We had Scotch eggs and ale. Nice. I saw him perform solo a couple of times. He’d sit up there with his fiddle, a whisky and a smoke, and play a reel and then tell a story; play an air and then tell a joke. Ever the bard, that was Johnny.

I worked with Johnny again in the studio when I was co-producing the band “Vision Thing”. He came in as a guest player to lay fiddle down on one of their tracks. The studio, Squid Hell, was in a big old house. It had multiple spaces to play, all of which were wired for microphones. He walked/played from room to room to find the best acoustics, and in classic Cunningham style, he chose the bathroom. He played the track (in one take) literally sitting on the throne. At the conclusion of his take, and as the last notes of the song died away, we heard over the control-room speakers: flusshhhh...
I still chuckle over that one. That was Johnny.

I don’t remember when the last time I saw Johnny was, but I think it was in Portsmouth New Hampshire, where I bumped in to him at The Press Room. That was probably ’94, give or take a year. After that he was based out of New York, his career went up to the next level, and deservingly so.

Perhaps it’s the gloom of this dreary day that brought Johnny to mind. He was the kind of guy who, from the corner of the pub and with revelers gathered ‘round, radiated humor and warmth and music, late in to a long winter’s night. He was the hearth. I reckon that is a trait born and bred in The Highlands (and fed by the water of life). One day I'll be drinking with him again and jamming with Johnny at seisiun, in that little pub, far away and over the hills.

For now, I will raise a not-so wee drammie to my lips and toast my one-time friend, Johnny Cunningham, the most soulful Scotsman I ever knew. beannachd leat caraid

Here are some Johnny web sites and his NY Times Obit:

http://www.johnnycunningham.com/

Johnny on MySpace

http://www.kennedy-center.org/programs/millennium/artist_detail.cfm?artist_id=CUNINGJOHN

NY Obituary

Charro Charro! Tacos, Cervesa y Mariachi!

Photo: Mariachi Mexamerica, playing weekly at Tacos El Charro

I discovered Jamaica Plain’s Tacos El Charro way before most non-Latinos. Before it had a “Best of Boston” award and long line of tastemongers waiting forever for a table, I frequented the authentic Taqueria there on Center Street. In about 1990 I started doing sessions nearby at my buddy Dicky Spears’ funky home studio, affectionately known as Squid Hell, located off Green Street. Now that I think of it, I was ahead of the crowd on a couple of levels. First, nobody yet knew about Squid Hell, but by ’94 or so, some of Boston’s most well-known engineers, producers and artists were tracking there. Second, few blue-eyed diners had yet crossed the threshold of Tacos El Charro, partially because it was (and still is) in a Latino neighborhood. In fact, that area of JP was still about eight or more years away from experiencing a huge gentrification and renaissance. (Dicky did very well for himself, buying that house back in about ’88. I can imagine what it must be worth now!).

So, we were always looking for food while sessioning, often opting for Doyle’s Irish Pub, the 100-year old Boston landmark on Washington Street. One lunchy mid-day, Dicky told me about the recently-opened Tacos El Charro. He said it made no sense to call in the order on the phone because they didn’t speak English. This was a good sign. So we just went down there. It was a shabby but clean little Cantina, with the classic piñatas and big fancy sombreros hanging from the ceiling. The smell of oil, cilantro and tortillas filled the restaurant. I noticed a small stage and some folkloric Mexican guitars hanging on the wall, too.

The food was great, cooked by mom in the kitchen and served by girls I surmised were her daughters. We’re talkin’ real Mexican tacos: Chopped seasoned steak with onions and cilantro folded in to a softened corn tortilla with beans on the side. That’s right, soft corn, not flour. There were none of the usual American trappings like cheese or olives or lettuce, making this unquestionably the most authentic Mexican food I’d had since moving from Texas five years before.

While eating, I noticed Mariachi memorabelia everywhere. There were photos of full bands as well as individual (very macho) Mariachis, like Hollywood head-shots. I learned that the owner was Pepe Guitierrez of Guadalajara, and he was, yes, Boston’s original Mariachi. While his wife ran the kitchen, Pepe headed up Mariachi Guadalajara, the only band of Mariachis in town. Turns out the group had been in existence locally since, my memory’s vague here, 1978? 1980? He and his wife DID in fact, speak broken English. The instruments hanging on the walls were the real deal, owned by the group, who played there every Saturday night. The restaurant didn’t have a full liquor license, but they did have beer! Holy shit! What a find! What a freaking FIND!

To make a long story even longer, I became a regular there. I got to know Pepe and the band and the girls who worked there. Dicky and I and bands we were working with at Squid Hell got introduced to Tacos El Charro and the Saturday night Mariachi fiesta. On nights when I had a gig with my band nearby, like at The Midway or The Milky Way, we’d go there to eat before the set. Though the place had yet to be “discovered”, I guess you could say WE were discovering it, bringing people there who likely never would have ventured in. And what fun we had!

One memorable night, we experienced Tacos El Charro in its full glory. (Actually it would be more memorable if I hadn’t drowned so many brain-cells in Tecate and Tequila). It was at least ten years ago now. Now that I think of it, it may have been on the eve of us moving to Albuquerque, which would make it late summer of ’97. Bernadette and I and a few friends, including our friend Bert Katzianer, were there having dinner (Bert was in a band I was producing called Rebel Yell). We had a big table with a party of at least six people. It must have been a Saturday because the Mariachis were doin’ their thing. The cervesa was a-flowin’ and the trumpets were a-blowin’ and before we knew it, they had closed the restaurant with us inside. I distinctly remember one of the waitresses locking the door and putting the closed sign up. I’d guess it was about 11:30 when she did that. Now it was the band, the staff, and US! This is when the REAL party began. Suddenly, I got the distinct feeling beer was not the only beverage being consumed. Everyone was dancing and drinking and whooping and hollering. Apparently we were being considered part of the family, and included in the fiesta.

I think it was Pepe or another guy in the group who first shouted for Beatris. Beatris was our waitress, this cute round Mexican girl with a couple of gold teeth right in the front. Others in the place joined in the call for Beatris to the stage. So, sheepish and blushing, she got up there and Pepe handed her the mic. They struck up a Mariachi Classic, Arboles de la Barranca I think it was, and Beatris proceeded to canta la cancion. She had the voice as strong as Tequila, as smooth as a Mexican brew. Incredible! She set the casa en fuego! To be flies on the wall would have been worth it, but they made us feel like full participants in the carnival. They were bringing us beer and not charging for it. At one point I found myself downstairs (Men's room) and my suspicions were confirmed. I stumbled in to the band room where the Mariachis were enjoying Tequila shots. Far be it for me not to join in! Salud!

After that, it gets pretty fuzzy. Like I said, it would be a night to remember, if only I could remember it!

Tom Halter, the lead trumpet in the group has worked with me in the studio a few times over the years, including recently. He’s an Americano but can play with perfectly imperfect slurry Spanish accent. He’s been in the outfit with Pepe, now called Mariachi Mexamerica since day one. You can hear a sample of his work with me on The Fathoms new LP, “Fathom This!”. Click on this link and play the song, “The Palomino”.


Pepe "El Tapatio" Gutierrez in prime form. Que guapo!