A star is broke

Portland’s almost-favorite son finally shines

By John O’Neill

Slaid Cleaves plays the Portland Public Market friday, November 24, from noon to 2 p.m.

SLAID CLEAVES: “The whole thing is just so thrilling.”

By the time the U-Haul broke the final crest of a seemingly day-long series of 5000-foot climbs and white-knuckle descents, it was nearly 2 a.m. Slaid Cleaves’s latest disc, Broke Down (Philo), played softly over the boom box (apparently U-Haul has never heard of stereo sound, forget tape decks), and that might have been the only thing keeping me on track, if not on schedule. Broke Down had a sadly desolate beauty that jibed with my own inner turmoil — uncertainty, dumb-ass mistakes, hope for a better tomorrow, and the promise of salvation-on-the-horizon were our mutual themes, and Lord knows salvation certainly seemed a long way off from where we sat.

Save for an occasional road sign promising fuel or food in some butt-fuck town, the flat sprawl of I-80 was utterly devoid of life. What’s more, this solo mission — the wonderful who-needs-a-plan plan to see the country and save some moving costs — that seemed ideal just three days, 2400 miles, $800 in gas, and one ill-researched truck rental ago had manifested into a personal race with the devil. Isolation, maniac SUV drivers, road work, detours, “New Country” radio, Indiana, a plunging gas gauge — a never-ceasing litany of torture that was beginning to come a rapping, rapping on our mental door, like Poe’s raven. The satisfaction that each hour on the road was 60 miles closer to the ultimate destination no longer held the same appeal and had taken a backseat to lengthy chats with the not-quite magnetic Virgin Mary (a late addition to the flight crew in an attempt to help combat the recently discovered night blindness, her Holy Plastic-ness was eventually gaffer-taped to the handle of the Igloo cooler), and, of all things, Portland, Maine. Or, more specifically, leaving Portland, which my co-pilot Slaid had done all those years ago to try and carve a niche in the music landscape. At least I had a sure thing waiting for me at the end of the road, namely a regular writing gig that would pay almost enough to cover the rent; the story of Slaid Cleaves is one of those never-ending journeys, in both the literal and metaphoric sense. And, while I was a half-assed writer, at least I got paid fairly well. Cleaves left town with little more than a guitar and the only steady paying gig he had ever known as a musician.

“Angie’s,” says Cleaves with a chuckle from a sound check in Cleveland. “Actually, it was my only regular gig. I played Monday nights and got paid $40. It’s still there, but it’s quieted down . . . It’s the only bar I’ve played in all 11 years and all the bars I’ve played where the entire house would be bought a round. These fishermen would come in after dividing up their catch with a couple thousand dollars in their pocket and a couple days to spend it, so they’d buy the house a round. It was a rough place. Stabbings, some drugs . . . I did meet my wife there!”

A childhood fan of the Clash and Bruce Springsteen, Cleaves’s moment of clarity came when he discovered his parents’ Gene Vincent, Buddy Holly, Hank Williams, and Woody Guthrie albums up in the attic of their South Berwick home while looking for his copy of Nebraska. Grooving on the new-old sounds it was decided a career in music and nothing less would be the vocational goal. Cleaves set off for Cork, Ireland, and some street busking, songwriting, and a little college, too, before returning to the streets of Portland and starting the roots-rock Moxie Men in 1988. Although the trio was a popular draw, Cleaves could still be found sitting in with old men who played for the fun of it, or on the street corner strumming his guitar to anyone who might happen by for a listen. By 1991, after a three-year diet of street performing, playing dives and going nowhere fast, he dissolved the Moxie Men, packed the car and headed south to Austin, Texas, to begin the next phase of eating shit and going nowhere fast.

The true Mecca for singer/songwriters (the Industry will insist that the title belongs to Nashville), Austin has always been a fertile and competitive environment for both veteran and aspiring songsmiths to work on their craft. A short role call of folk who call the area home include Willie Nelson, Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Robert Earl Keen, Tom Russell, Joe Ely, Kelly Willis, Junior Brown, Asleep At The Wheel, Don Walser, and Ray Wylie Hubbard. Beyond the who’s who of contemporary Americana music, Austin also plays proving ground for the hundreds of low-rung songwriters who come down to soak up the vibe, and it is no easy town to try and make a name for yourself, which Cleaves learned early on. Having taken top honors at the ’92 Kerrville Folk Festival (whose past winners include Lyle Lovett and Steve Earle), Cleaves was still an unknown back in town.

“I’d be playing and Jimmie Dale or Joe Ely would be playing across the street. There was so much good music, so I had to work harder. [Kerrville] was a great validation. I was a hometown guy before that. I figured it would either be the first step or the pinnacle of my career. For a while it looked like it was gonna be the pinnacle.”

1992’s self-released Life’s Other Side would back up that fear. Received with a smattering of critical acclaim, it showed Cleaves trying to shake off the eternal curse of the New England folk singer — namely penning overly dramatic, ultimately forgettable acoustic music. Still he was on the road whenever the money situation afforded it, and slowly absorbing the lessons inherent to surrounding yourself with quality craftsmen. By the time 1997’s No Angel Knows was released by Rounder Records’ Philo subsidiary, Cleaves had developed into the “new” kid to keep an eye on. Loaded with graceful tunes about despair, coming up short, and decay, the disc topped many critics “best of” lists, but, after two solid years of touring, did little to advance Cleaves into the mainstream. It was still a case of losing money on the road, returning home to play in front of small rooms, and subsidizing music by taking odd jobs, including stints unloading dumpsters and volunteering as a test subject for a local pharmaceutical company.

Then the new decade brought Broke Down and Cleaves luck began to take a turn for the better. Produced by Gurf Morlix (who has also twiddled the knobs for Lucinda Williams, Buddy Miller, and ex-Plimsoul Peter Case), the album picked up where No Angle Knows left off, but was also Cleaves most cohesive body of work to date. Driven by stark acoustic strumming, ragged-but-tender vocals, and a production value that seemed to have sparse penciled in as the way to fly on every track, Broke Down reintroduces Cleaves broken characters, wrecked relationships, and barren landscapes. The losers know they’re losing but don’t know how to get around it, hope is generally on the horizon but the gas tank is running on empty, and second chances are just an excuse to mess up all over again. Which isn’t to say that Broke Down is a depressing album. Cleaves’s storytelling imbues his cast of loners with a certain acceptance and dignity — they might be going down, but they’re going down gracefully, and they don’t ask for understanding.

After it’s release earlier this year, Broke Down spent five consecutive weeks on the top of the Gavin Americana charts (the roots equivalent of Billboard), received praise from sources as varied as Mojo, No Depression, and VH1, and even has Rounder thinking they might have their first cross-over artist since Alyson Krause began collecting Grammy’s like S&L Green Stamps. In the meantime, Cleaves is doing what he’s always done — hitting the road and winning the crowd over room by room. There’s no hall too big, no radio station too small, and no amount of money (assuming there is some after he pays the band) too insignificant.

“That part hasn’t changed at all: I’m on the road till December, then it’s back to Texas for some writing. But things are certainly different this time out. I’m getting airplay, and getting better rooms, which is thrilling. On the No Angel tour I was playing in front of 10 or 12 people. Now, it’s still tough on a Monday or Tuesday, but the difference is people are showing up, singing along and making requests because they know the music. And Rounder is behind the album. They’re actually putting out a single which is great because the album is getting play in about a dozen cities already. The whole thing is just so thrilling.”

John O’Neill can be reached at johndelrey@yahoo.com.