I wrote the review of the Peter Case performance before I read his first book, a brief autobiography about the early days when he rolled out of his hometown of Buffalo, New York and made it to San Francisco without any real plans of what he would do when he got there.
To do such a thing today would be seen as foolish. I remember telling my father once that I was going to move out west, hang out with some friends and become a recording engineer-a pipe dream, for sure, but a solid enough explanation in my mind to justify packing up and moving.
Almost immediately-like any good father, I suppose-began to dismantle my plans, pointing out the blatant lack of planning and how I would have no reliable source of income when I arrived to my destination.
I didn't care, man, I wanted to be free of all of this oppression man!
It's a common trait that many from the Midwest throw up, this notion that the region is so backwards and stifling that it somehow prevents a young person from achieving their dreams. It's nonsense, of course, because the reality that you can actually make your dreams in an area not known for it's culture and social agenda. Instead, living in the Midwest only means that you'll have to work harder in addressing the very superficial reasons you have that are pressing you to leave.
For years, I was bitter at my old man for telling me the truth. The reality is, if I was truly ready to pick up and split, I would have done it. But my dad's concerns made real sense to me, and yes, I'm an only child, so the idea of moving so far from the nest at that time also weighed heavy.
I looked at friends that had made similar choices, and was impressed at how little they ultimately used their new surroundings. It was an endless barrage of part-time jobs just to keep a roof over their head, and all of the shows and social events that they promised to embrace suddenly became something they couldn't afford.
Then there were those that completely abused their lack of a family safety net. They met with other lonely souls and brought their lives to the brink of addiction, some of whom are very lucky to be alive today.
Me? I stayed home. And although I'm not suggesting that my decision was one that everyone should adhere to, it is a choice that worked for me and one that I don't regret making now that I'm in a place where I love and around people that I love more than my own selfish needs.
And while I have no tolerance for those who depart because they feel the region somehow suppresses their dreams, I can abide those whose dreams require them to leave. In Peter Case's world, California was a different planet compared to Buffalo-and it came at a time when a lot of young people were doing the exact same thing.
When he reached Chicago, a man boarded the train on a cold winter night after Case. The two were remarkably similar: both had long hair, army bags full of clothes and a guitar case. Both were heading out West to begin whatever, although the gentleman he sat with was a couple of years older than Case and had been out to California on a few occasions.
He offered Case some advice: keep to yourself.
If it seems like I've spent a large amount of words talking about myself rather than As Far As You Can Get Without A Passport, it's because of the book's brevity than my own need to tell you the intimate details of what a chickenshit I am. Peter Case is someone who made the journey, and someone who made it for the right reasons.
Of course, that may be easy to say since he later became a renowned singer-songwriter, making the journey worth the hardship. But what makes the book so great is that you never get the sense that everything will end out alright. There are hints of Case's talents, but since he's very good at talking down his own abilities, there's always a sense that he could easily get shipped back home at any point. I mean, he lives in a junkyard at one point. I don't recall any Dylan stories where he's sleeping in retired vehicles.
At 51 pages, I finished As Far As You Can Get Without A Passport in the amount of time for a lengthy bowel-movement. And while I didn't actually read it on a toilet, the ending did have me holding my breath somewhat, with Case and his friend holed up in a small, Mexican seaside town with no gas, no money, and no skills in the Spanish language.
All he has is a guitar.
I believe As Far As You Can Get Without A Passport is a precursor to a larger book, or maybe it will be released in various increments, like a kick-ass e.p. Whatever comes next, I'm hooked. Even if I know how this story ultimately ends, I want to read about it and live vicariously through Case's own will to keep moving.
Peter Case’s life is one that has been in constant motion.
And the years and the miles are quite apparent in the man’s
appearance; his face now detailed with lines and a mound of grey on his chin.
It’s quite a difference from the shaded hipster of The Plimsouls or even the
still-boyish look of the cover of The Man
With The Blue Post Modern Neo-Traditionalist Guitar release.
The last thirty years have seen him traveling the roads of
“almost recognizable” and “cult favorite.” He has probably hit a bunch of the
same venues over and over again, making his career seem like a sequel to Groundhog Day than the places of
interest for a well-traveled icon.
This would be only his second visit to our state
professionally. While contemplating the number of times he’s been in Iowa, Peter remembered a story of a gig in Missouri that he missed,
primarily because he became lost while patrolling the Hawkeye state’s back
roads.
As an Iowa
native, I can say from experience that some of those roads lead nowhere.
For Case, the road helped shape his experience and that own
experience began when he told his parents-both of whom were schoolteachers in
the Buffalo public
school district-that his next step would be to drop out of school.
And with plans like that, you can imagine the next item on
the “To do list” was to find new housing accommodations. Teachers don’t respond
well when their kids tell them they’re dropping out. It tends to be somewhat of
an insult to their profession.
Case got his G.E.D. and got the hell out of his parent’s
house. He traveled from the cold Buffalo climate
to the warm, inviting arms of California,
where he ended up a street performer in San
Francisco. He looked closely at his new surroundings,
and from those observations, he turned the stories into songs.
His first encounter with notoriety was while he was in the
band The Nerves, an early punk rock entry with pop overtones. Green Day would
make similar advances more than a decade after The Nerves split, but they
always acknowledged how it was bands like The Nerves that did it first-and some
would suggest, did it better.
Case later got more exposure as the frontman of The
Plimsouls. They cracked the Top 100 with a song called “Million Miles Away,” an
infectious piece of power pop that it not only got added to the soundtrack to
the movie Valley Girl, it also got
the band a cameo in the film.
The movie would become Nicolas Cage’s first starring role in
what would prove to be a very successful career, but the band’s fortunes were
not as great. The Plimsouls were actually in the process of breaking up when Hollywood called, but since Hollywood was just down the street from their
home turf, it wasn’t glittery enough to keep them from splintering just as
their popularity was growing.
I remember discovering The Plimsouls through that film, but I
also remember something more striking when I took the obligatory step to learn
more about them.
By the time I noticed, Case had already embarked on a solo
career. What I didn’t know was how far Peter had moved from his power pop past
with his debut release Peter Case.
It was a very organic and rootsy affair. Peter Case is an Americana album before such a name even existed. “Old Blue Car”
was the leadoff track from that record, and it featured a loose beat, sparse
arrangements, and Case honking on a harmonica in between his passionate ode to
an old car and its most important accessory: a pretty woman around his arm.
During a time when pop music embraced the processed digital
chill of a state of the art technology that sucked the life out of most
recordings, producer T-Bone Burnett kept it simple. And Case went back to the
music that caused him to question authority and drop out of school to begin
with, so the pairing is mutually beneficial.
Case has stuck to this style of music ever since. More
important than his commitment to
authenticity is the man’s true passion for the history of music itself.
He peppers his records and set lists with songs from the past, paying close
attention to identifying every performer in case you want to look into their
work after the gig.
Case is an obvious follower of Mr. Zimmerman and he has made
a point to carry on the tradition of lone troubadours like him. And while simple
inspirations like sex, drugs and rock and roll would also fuel his younger passion,
when the day came time to make a choice for a career as a rock and roller or
just a simple folk journeyman, Case chose the one that was more closely aligned
with his own muse.
Right out of the gate, his worked gained him a Grammy
nomination. “Old Blue Car”became a
left-field curio because it sounded so different when compared to the college
charts he was accustomed to. The record company liked the attention that his album
garnered, and they complimented it by throwing large sums of money to pair Case
with notable session players and expensive producers.
As he noted in one of his stories before hitting the
material, the moment that he delivered an album that cost next to nothing even
while maintaining the critical accolades that followed him throughout his career,
was the moment when the label dropped him. The large costs would keep him tied
up in legal paybacks for many years to come, so an album recorded with the utmost
efficiency only stacked the deck in Case’s favor.
Peter Case starring as Merle Haggard
Ironically, when Case began scaling back his musical approach
as a cost-cutting measure, his music
suddenly blossomed. This was the approach of his idols, but more importantly,
it was an approach that complimented his clever storytelling skills to no end.
Before too long, he was better known for his commitment to
the American roots than the Paisley Underground. But for some like myself, his
proper start began with rock and roll, but it is obviously his talents as a
songwriter that places Case at the top of the artistic food chain, regardless
of what genre he associates with.
On Tuesday night, Peter Case’s skinny tie was a neck holder
for his harmonica, his chiming Rickenbacker turned into a refurbished acoustic
12-string, and anything that required electricity was either left behind or not
working (spoiler alert!).
He’s sitting down for most of his performances now, and when
he raises up from his seat, Case’s back instinctively slouches over with age. His
smooth face from the days of his youth is now comprised of wrinkles and a grey
goatee that he occasionally tugged at.
Case is approaching 60, and if it’s not enough that a man
his age is still pulling weeks of one-nighters in intimate settings like CSPS,
what does make this fact a little more frightening is how heart surgery was the
only thing that seemed to sideline him from his constant tour schedule just a
few years ago.
He acknowledges the toll, but the passion in his acoustic
performances also acknowledges a musical history that requires a never-ending
commitment. For example, Case approaches a song by Sleepy John Estes with such
unbridled enthusiasm that you wonder if the preservation of the songs and
stories of our country’s music is more important to him than his own
self-preservation.
His sets are so open and filled with enticing narrative that
an evening with Peter Case on stage is probably the same kind of evening with
Peter Case in your living room. You become enraptured by his stories and
passionate picking that even when Case flubs a note or the proceeding story
begins to ramble, you remind yourself that he’s traveled a few thousand miles
just to play here. I’d say he’s allowed to stretch out, miss a fret, and refer
to his career in self-deprecating terms.
Even a non-functioning keyboard would only interrupt the set
for the amount of time it took Case to work his way back to his acoustics. And
when he was advised later in the set that the keyboard was now working
properly, Case only used it for one song. He doesn’t like traveling the same
road twice, so the idea of the keyboard was an exit from several miles before.
He used it for maybe one or two songs before returning to the acoustics.
He’s an excellent picker, but he is far from being a
perfectionist, allowing the flubbed frets and missed runs to act as moments of integrity.
Case can be showy when it’s necessary, but he also peppers it with moments of
self-deprecation just to let you know that he’s good enough to make a living at
this thing, but he’s not good enough to be a star.
That’s the only frustrating thing about him, because he should
be a star. When he dismissed such a notion after a bit on banter from yours
truly, he was speaking against the title in its most superficial of terms.
A star in my mind is someone with the kind of chops that can
influence others to pick up an instrument and run with it. Case certainly has
the power to do that, and he’s patient enough to acknowledge his own stars.
There’s not a doubt in my mind that Case would view some of the same artists
that he covered that evening as “rock stars,” even though they probably never
even saw an electric amplifier.
By the third standing ovation encore, Case didn’t even
bother to return to the stage. Instead, he hoisted his acoustic guitar up and
walked around the front row of tables, sans microphone. He sang the most honest
version of “Beyond The Blues” ever, and it transcended everything else he did
that evening at the Legion Arts hall.
And after two-hours of stellar music that already made the
evening a perfect encounter, his final selection only confirmed what I yelled
from the crowd earlier: Peter Case is indeed a rock star.
