“Writing is
writing,” claims St. Louis native, Michael Supe
Granda, “whether it’s a two-line poem, a
three-minute pop song, or a five-hundred page book.
The process is the same. Writing a book, though, is
much harder and takes a lot, lot longer.” Along with
having his songs recorded by luminaries, such as
Chet Atkins, Augie Meyers, Walter Egan and Billy
Bremner, Supe has finally put pen to paper to
chronicle the thirty-seven year career of his band,
the Ozark Mtn. Daredevils.
This isn’t the
first time his words have found their way into
print. Throughout the 80’s and 90’s, he wrote
numerous essays about music, politics and baseball,
which found their way into books and periodicals.
His account of his foray into the political arena -
when he ran for the Missouri House of Representative
in 1990 - found its way into Dave Marsh’s book, “50
Ways to Fight Censorship”. His musical musings found
their way into the Springfield News-Leader, the St.
Louis Post-Dispatch, and the Nashville Scene. His
off-beat views on baseball found their way into
several official magazines of the St Louis
Cardinals.
“I figured that
if I could string thirty, or so, 1,500 word essays
about the band together, I could shape them into a
book.” Thus, ‘It Shined’.
In 1964, after
seeing the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show, he
traded in his boyhood dreams of baseball gloves for
an adolescent guitar and a serious case of rock ‘n’
roll tunnel vision. At the end of the 1960s, he
aimed his life to Springfield, Missouri, where he
would meet and help form the Daredevils. At the
beginning of the 90’s, he relocated his life to
Nashville, where he continues to write and record
his songs, run his record label and publishing
company.
As the turbulent 60’s began
to fade into the calmer
70’s, a coterie of young
singers, songwriters,
musicians, artists, and
poets began to congregate,
musically on the stage of
The New Bijou Theater - the
Springfield, Missouri
nightclub that would become
the loose-knit group’s home.
What started as an informal
weekly gathering, quickly
morphed into a formal band.
Dubbed the Family Tree,
they became a favorite of
the local counter-culture,
as well as a continuation of
the tradition-rich,
Springfield music scene -
which, until recently,
included the Ozark Jubilee
(the nation’s first
televised country music
show).
Though
unprofitable at the time,
they stuck to their guns and
their original songs. When a
rough tape of an early Bijou
gig caught the ear of music
mogul, John Hammond, it
culminated in a 26-song
studio demo, which caught
the ear of A&M executive,
David Anderle. The group
signed with the label,
changed their name to its
present moniker, and whisked
off to London to record
their debut album under the
tutelage of Glyn Johns.
The album
contained “If You Want to
Get to Heaven”. Their
subsequent album, recorded
in rural Missouri, contained
“Jackie Blue”. Both songs
remain staples on ‘classic
rock’ radio.
By the early
80’s, the Ozark Mountain
Daredevils found themselves
right where the Family Tree
had stood a decade before -
in Springfield with no
record deal. They did,
though, find themselves with
legions of loyal fans around
the world. Amidst personnel
changes, personal turmoils
and a cornucopia of tales
from the rock-n-roll
highway, the next twenty
years were spent ‘on the
road’.
Though
continuing to write, they
could garner little interest
among the rapidly
modernizing music industry -
a situation many
long-haired, long-named
hippie bands of the 70’s
find themselves in. Their
music, though, lives in the
hearts of their fans.
Headley
Grange, our “home for the month,” would not be
available until Sunday. Studio time at Olympic
didn’t begin until Monday. We were afforded—just as
we were in New York—a couple of unencumbered days to
see the sights, visit the A&M offices and try not to
step out in front of oncoming cars.
As we checked into the hotel, all
we could think about was food. After just tossing
our bags into our rooms, Donald whisked us right
back into the night and off to the Speakeasy. They
served food late. To us, it wasn’t late.
The basement room—a notorious
hangout for the British rock scene—was already in
full swing by the time we walked in. The place was
filled with smoke and flashing lights, as pub
rockers, Ace were taking the stage for their final
set. The dance floor filled with stoned people,
including Pete Townshend, stoned to the gills and
oblivious to everyone and everything around him.
John sets the tone, “There were
all these really hip English, Carnaby Street folks
all over the place. This was obviously the hippest
place in town—and it was open after hours. After all
the other pubs closed, if you had a membership, or
knew somebody at the door, you could get into the
Speakeasy.” We were seated at a long table in
the corner, where carafe after carafe accompanied
pint after pint. Just like the other night in New
York, when we were introduced to sake, tonight in
London, we were introduced to Guinness. Donald told stories of the ale’s
vivid myths and colorful history. When it was
delivered, we carved our initials into the foam. As
the level of the liquid lowered, this identification
remained in the head of that crazy little thing call
Guinness. As mug after mug disappeared, I fell in
love with the stuff—just like I did with sake. Dinner took quite a while to
arrive, its delay causing one round of drinks to
turn into several rounds of drinks. Members of the
A&M staff dropped by to introduce themselves. We
found out that they liked to drink and dance as much
as we did. With each pint, the laughter grew. With
each quart, it turned to cackling. As we waited on our food, everyone
recognized the self-detonating Townshend—who had
neared our table. Once again, John picks up the
story: “I was on the end of this long table and a
guy walked by. I knew it was Pete Townshend, because
I’d seen him hovering around different parts of the
restaurant all night. When he passed, I said,
‘Excuse me. Are you the waiter?’
“He turned around and replied,
‘Well, I AM waiting.’
“I said, ‘Oh, good. What are you
waiting for—the beginning or the end?’
“He sort of got sullen, and said,
‘I’m waiting for the end … So, what are you waiting
for?’
“I said, ‘I’m waiting for the
beginning.’ He turned around and yelled into the
room, ‘Hey. This bloke missed the beginning.’ I
remember that you and Cash were in shock. I mean,
here’s Pete Townshend and we’re having this very
strange conversation, after being in London for only
a couple of hours. He mumbled a few more things.
Then, he stumbled off. There was no confrontation.
It was just a completely absurd exchange with one of
the greatest guitar players in the world.
