Live in Vancouver:
Todd Snider on the Skids

First Appeared in The Music Box, March 2008, Volume 15, #3

Written by Douglas Heselgrave

Publicity Photos by Senor McGuire

Wed March 12, 2008, 06:30 AM CDT

Swooping toward his microphone after switching guitars, a disheveled-looking Todd Snider faced the audience and explained, "I’ve just got one more song I have to get out of my system before I turn it over to you, and then, I’ll play whatever you want."

Snider’s hair was askew, and he jerked around like Keith Richards on too much coffee or not enough pot. Yet, he obviously was in his element as he ripped into Just Like Old Times, an off-kilter, down-on-your-luck love song from his recent studio set The Devil You Know. Even for a seasoned performer like Snider, it had been a memorable night. It was roughly one hour into his solo acoustic set at Pat’s Pub in Vancouver’s Patricia Hotel, and it was clear that he had the entire audience, which was a hodgepodge mixture of fans and down-and-out regulars, in the palm of his hand.

The Patricia Hotel definitely has seen better days. Situated near the intersection of Main and Hastings, Vancouver’s infamous skid row, the neighborhood seems like a living, breathing tour through Todd Snider’s songbook. A few hours before the show, I had to dodge past junkies and prostitutes in order to get to Snider’s tour bus for our meeting in the venue’s parking lot. By the time we had crossed from one end to the other, Snider had a handful of pockmarked, gap-toothed hangers-on wondering who he was and "how he got so famous that he could buy a bus." Snider piled into the vehicle after me, and he was full of questions of his own, such as "Should I have put that hooker on the guest list?" and "Do you think anyone would shoot me if I went out onto the street and busked?"

I assured Snider that he was in Canada where guns are still fairly rare and that he’d find an appreciative audience on the streets of skid row. I told him about Patti Smith’s and Allen Ginsberg’s past impromptu performances in the neighborhood. He looked up at me, smiled, and said, "Well, I’ve had some funny offers already, and I’ve only been in your town for a few hours. This is the street where the pig farmer found all the girls and butchered them at his ranch, isn’t it?"

I was surprised that news of Willy Pickton, Canada’s most notorious mass murderer, had reached Snider at his home in Tennessee. "Well, it’s kind of an irresistible story isn’t it? It has all the elements," he said. For an observant person like Snider, who has been writing songs from the dark side for well over a decade, it certainly does.

Snider confessed to being tired as we sat down inside his rig, but he quickly assured me that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. "Eat, play, and sleep. Most of the time on tour, I just crash inside my bus. It gives me some consistency," he explained. "Usually I just play on weekends, but twice a year I become a road warrior. I go out for four or five weeks at a time. I’ve always really been into this job, and I get more into it as I go."

Switching gears slightly, he then stated, "I don’t know what I’m trying to do with this music, but I’m passionate about it. At my age now, it doesn’t matter. I’m not in a hurry. It’s not like if I don’t hurry up and get my record out, I’m not going to be able to eat. So, I just keep working at it until it feels right to me — until it feels honest. I just do everything with handshakes. I haven’t had a contract, and I haven’t signed anything for five records now. I’m too old for label stuff to really matter for me, I suppose."

I wondered how Snider knew when a song was ready — when it sounded honest. "I don’t know. It’s hard to say," he replied. "There’s a certainty that I can’t put my finger on. I’m not sure what causes the certainty, but once it’s there, it’s there. Once the door shuts, I say ‘Good! I’m certain of that.’ But, if I’m not certain after a while, I’ll let it go."

"Actually, I turned in a record a month ago," he continued. "I’ve been listening to it for the last week, and I don’t think it’s done. Two songs aren’t holding up for me. I’m giving up on them because they’ve been reworked a few times already. I’ve got two new ones, but I don’t know if they’re the two that I’m looking for. Right now, the record just doesn’t feel finished."

When I asked him how the recording for his new album was progressing, Snider smiled and said, "It sounds funny, but every one of the songs has this Sanford and Son kind of beat to it. It’s kind of a funky record, but I don’t want it to get too self-conscious. I’m trying to combine old-fashioned rock ’n‘ roll with folk music in a way that’s unique."

Then, he rolled his eyes and laughed before adding, "But, trying to be unique — that’s just a great medicine for not being unique!"

"There was a song I threw out yesterday. I listened to it over and over and realized, ‘Hey, that’s a Bo Diddley song.’ And, I thought I was being unique," he continued.

"Chuck Berry is my favorite. Maybe it’s because he’s Bob Dylan and Keith Richards’ favorite, but I love him. I still just love old rock ’n‘ roll. I wish I could think of a ‘thin, wild, mercury thing’ to describe what I do," Snider mused, making reference to Dylan’s well-known response to a reporter who asked him to define his sound. "We call it folk rock ’n‘ roll — distinct from folk-rock because that’s clearly been done already. I’m trying to find a unique way to do something that is really roots-driven. I still like the same, old song. I’m just trying to find a new way to sing it."

As Snider slumped back on the couch, I was reminded of Gandhi’s famous quote that sometimes it takes a lot of work to achieve simplicity. Tom Waits carried it further by asserting that it can take a $10,000 microphone to make a record sound like it was recorded in a chicken coop. For an artist like Snider who appears to be tormented by the disparate urges of looseness and perfection, the road to creation must be frustrating at times.

I remarked that I liked the warmth and richness of the sound he’d achieved on The Devil You Know, and I asked him if he was satisfied with the results. Snider sat up again, warming up to what was obviously a favorite topic of discussion. "I like the last two records a lot," he said. "I think I hear the sound I want before I make it, and I’ve got good people to help me reach that sound. I’m trying not to repeat myself. I want to be daring. That’s one of the things I thought about today. I was listening to these songs for the new album, and they’re lacking that sense of adventure. I’m hoping to get it back."

"For the last record (The Devil You Know), we got it," explained Snider. "We found the sounds. Like on If Tomorrow Never Comes...the piano at the beginning of the song...it’s an old saloon piano. You can’t copy that sound. It’s distinct."

"I work with people now who understand me," he continued. "I’ve always had the same people in my life, and I let them into my life because they knew the goal. It’s like a wink and a nod, and we look at each other. We know what we’re trying to do. When I bring a new song to the people I work with, they’re not listening to hear if it’s going to be something that will get me all over the charts. We have this aimless, undefined goal. I know this sounds corny, but I’m trying to be an artist, and I feel surrounded by people that want to protect that for me."

Elaborating further, Snider said, "My friend Eric McConnell has been collecting instruments and recording gear all of his life. When I’m home, we go over to his house. I met him through a pot dealer, and we hit it off right away. He made that Loretta Lynn Van Lear Rose record. When he did that, he had put himself in a place where I felt like he was ready, and I could go over to his place whenever I felt like it. That’s the situation any artist is looking for."

When I told Snider that I considered All that Matters, the second to last track on The Devil You Know, to be an illustration of a song that sounded natural and unforced, he beamed. "It’s funny," he responded. "That particular track...I think I had just gotten out of bed and walked over to Eric’s house. That’s a good example of what we were talking about earlier. I said, ‘I think I have a new song.’ Then, I grabbed a guitar without thinking about which one it was or even if the guitar was in tune. I played the song and said, ‘just tap the snare, and let’s just hear how this sounds.’ We recorded it and thought, ‘that’s cool...that’ll go on the record.’"

"When we went to make the album," he continued, "we recorded it again and didn’t like it. We finally used the version we had recorded that first day. I recorded it four times, and I used the demo. I liked that sound. You just never know how things will turn out. It was the vocal. On the other versions, the vocals sounded professional, or they sounded like we were at the studio trying to make a record, which is what we are trying to get away from."

"There are some guys like Bob Mercer, Bert Stein, Al Bunetta, John Prine, and Jimmy Buffett who have formed this protective circle around me," Snider explained. "My company is called Aimless, Inc., and they protect that intensely. No one has tried to make me aim. I feel totally free to pursue whatever sound comes into my head."

I asked Snider if he always has had the same attitude toward his music. I wondered if performing was a lifelong goal, or if he’d come into it in a more haphazard way. "I was about 18, and I’d always been obsessed with music, but my dad didn’t go for it. So, I never took it seriously," he said.

"I was on the roof of a building in Santa Rosa, and I’d bottomed out. I thought that night I could try to do whatever I wanted. I could try to be an astronaut because I was at zero. I didn’t have a leg up anywhere. I could try to be a pro football player or whatever. I could fail at anything, and I didn’t feel as though anyone was watching," he continued.

"I remember sitting on the roof. At that time, I hadn’t heard that song with the line ‘freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose’ (Me & Bobby McGee), but I remember knowing that feeling that I had zero to lose for real. In that moment, I asked myself, ‘what do you really want to do?’ I didn’t know how to play guitar. I’d never even tried to open my mouth to sing, but I thought I wanted to be a singer. Then, I started trying to be it," he said.

"From there, I went to Texas, and I kept trying to get into bands with these lyrics I was writing," explained Snider. "I saw Jerry Jeff Walker play alone and tell stories. It seemed like he was living the life I was living. I said to myself, ‘That’s it. That’s the model. I’m going to copy him and play by myself.’ I had to go and get a guitar the next day. It looked like he wasn’t doing a whole lot with his hands, and I thought that I could probably figure that out. Then, I started following him around and following John Prine around. I watched them play and memorized the words."

"When I finally got to play with Prine, it was really cool," Snider continued. "He still intimidates me a lot, and I know he wishes he didn’t. He intimidates me as a man and an artist. I can hardly look into his eyes. It’s sad because I feel like I’d really like to know the man. I feel like he senses that, too. He’s so amiable to everybody, and I’m just one of the tongue-tied, little songwriters who loves him. I’ve gone out, had lunch, and hung out with him a bunch of times, but I always feel like my heart rate is fucking flying. I hope I look composed. I know all of his songs by heart, and at one point — before I lost so many fucking brain cells — I could have won a John Prine trivia contest against him. Now, I’ve got too many of my own songs to remember."

Snider and I sat together in silence for a while as the sun went down. As he turned and looked out the window of the bus, he absentmindedly began talking again. "I think of myself as a fairly hopeless person and I draw great comfort from it," he declared.

"The working title of the album we’re putting together now is Crank It! We’re Doomed," he continued. "It’s like why I told you I became a singer. It wasn’t because I was convinced I’d be good. It’s because I decided I could be shitty at anything I wanted to be shitty at. You know this is cool, and I really appreciate talking to you. But, the hard part about talking about your songs is that you work so long on making the lyric go exactly where it goes, and then you expound on it [in conversation] and ruin it. None of it’s as real as what we can see out the window."

"I live in a neighborhood where a lot of people are in trouble," he said. "It’s not as bad as this one, but I see people who do stuff and it tears them up. They’re right in between their faith and what repercussions they believe will come as a result of their actions. Then, there’s the hard, concrete thing that you’re facing right now to contend with. It fucks up your choices. An example I can give is a friend of mine who sells drugs and thinks it’s terrible. But, if she doesn’t do it, her kids aren’t going to eat. She’s torn, and she’s trapped between how much she believes in Heaven and the devil that she knows. I don’t think that makes her a bad person."

"What I was trying to say with that song (The Devil You Know) — and all of my songs to an extent — is that crossing over the line and doing evil things doesn’t necessarily make you evil. That would be too easy," he explained.

During the hours between our interview and the beginning of the show, Todd Snider obviously had given some consideration to the night’s set list. He fashioned together a sequence of songs that commented on the environment in which he now found himself. Alone on stage, in the dark and moldy confines of the Patricia Hotel’s bar, Snider looked into the crowd and began singing as if his life depended on it. Dipping deep into the dark side of his repertoire, it was hard to imagine a venue that was better suited for songs such as Tillamook County Jail or the elegiac Alcohol and Pills.

Snider’s hard-luck tales resonated deeply with the eclectic crowd that had assembled to hear him on such a rainy night. Everyone may have had a different reason for being there, but by the time Snider tore into Beer Run, a raucous sing-along from his 2002 endeavor New Connection, any sense of segregation that had existed within the audience prior to the start of the show had melted away. Every voice in the house joined together to sing the chorus. Whatever alchemy of events had conspired to create the atmosphere in the bar, everyone clearly was happy to hang on tight and follow Snider as he slipped into his own personal heart of darkness.

As the night wore on, and as the audience — a sometimes uneasy co-mingling of music fans, junkies, and characters who looked as if they had stepped out of a Charles Bukowski novel — boozily continued to scream requests, Snider wove his way toward his set’s conclusion. Exhausted and elated, the sweaty singer rasped through Enjoy Yourself before leaving the stage. Sensing that those gathered would not let him go so easily, Snider returned almost immediately. After taking a long, slow, incredulous look around the room, he launched into Keep Off the Grass. The biting irony of the lyrics, which urged his listeners to "Keep your nose clean/Keep your head above water/Keep your feet on the ground/Keep your hands off my daughter," hung heavily in the room.

As the show ended, the Patricia Hotel — which temporarily had been transformed from a junkie bar into a haven for roots music — seemed to resume its former identity. Patrons left the building, and regulars, who now were freed from the cover charge, stepped out of the rain and filed into the room. As I left, I took one look back at the bar to watch as Snider, wiping sweat from his forehead, greeted the members of the audience who fast were approaching him, beers in their hands, to request his autograph. Out on the street, it was a different world. I pushed past two figures packing crack pipes in the doorway, and I thought of my kids, long in bed, and the fact that I’d have to get up in four hours.

Real, authentic music is a rare commodity, and I left the Patricia Hotel thinking about how grace and beauty can appear in a variety of disguises. Looking at the poverty and despair around me, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d received a kind of gift or blessing from Snider. Although I hadn’t been looking for much of anything, he had shown me something I hadn’t realized before about the different paths that lead to truth in art. One night in Snider’s universe had exhausted me, but I knew that no matter how I felt the next day, it was worth it. Great music always is.

The Devil You Know is available from Barnes & Noble.
To order, Click Here!

Copyright © 2008 The Music Box