Hitting the ‘Street’ with Justin Townes Earle
For several years, Justin Townes Earle released music at a torrid pace for a young singersongwriter: six albums in seven years.
The two most recent — “Single Mothers” in 2014 and “Absent Fathers” in 2015 — were particularly internalized recordings, with Earle picking at personal and family issues connected to his unusual life as the kid of a well-known songwriter who wasn’t around the first decade or so of his life.
Earle is now 35, and his new “Kids in the Street” reflects that. He looks outward more on this album, with observational songs in an energetic and modern country blues form. They’re new thoughts about old haunts, as Earle reflects on the present with memories of his past.
Sober and married, with a child on the way, he’s effectively stepped into a new morning in the next phase of a career that has already produced some remarkable music. He discussed the quickly disappearing Nashville of his youth, the folk blues tradition and Paul Simon.
Q: I was intrigued by the use of a Corolla in “Champagne Corolla.” Cars have meant different things in songs: They’ve been signifiers of cool, they’ve been aspirational and representative of freedom. But the Corolla implies a certain practicality.
A: Yeah, I was chasing that old Chuck Berry-type rock ’n’ roll song about a car. And while I was doing that, I kind of realized, y’know what? In 1956, the Chevelle wasn’t necessarily the coolest car in the world. And now we have this system where everybody’s so practical with cars. But I think back to the ’90s, you’d see a teacher driving a Corolla to school. And you’d have homeboys driving them with gold rims. It didn’t matter, man. That Corolla, it was a versatile car.
Q: The record made me think about how close blues and country can be to one another. One listen, I thought “What’s She Cryin’ For” was a honky-tonk song. Another time, it struck me as a blues song.
A: Absolutely. I mean, we’ve been dealing with an unfortunate system of class and race in this country for a long time. So those two types of music came from the same soil. There were just railroad tracks in between the soil. There’s just this much difference. People think there’s a big difference, but the difference between blues and country, it’s literally just a question of where you went to church. On which side of those tracks, you know?
Q: You covered Paul Simon’s “Graceland.” The first thing people think about his “Graceland” album is the mix of African and American music. But it’s this deeply American album with various American music styles.
A: Yes, and I want to get people, specifically people my age, to take a step back and look at that Paul Simon stuff again. I think people should hear it in a different way. If you strip it down, it’s very American music. Take away the African rhythms and that’s what’s there. And if you’re specifically looking for where the bodies are buried in Paul Simon’s music, there’s a lot of Mississippi John Hurt there. That’s one thing I always loved about “Graceland.” I was listening to it, and I picked up a guitar and fumbled around a little. And I thought, “Wait a minute … that’s Mississippi John Hurt.” Some people call it “Travis picking,” and some call it “Hurt picking.” But it’s there. The African rhythms and vocals are amazing additions, but that’s there underneath it all.
Q: He touches on Louisiana in the mix. Which you seemed to do on “15-25.”
A: Absolutely. My dad’s side of the family did that drift into Louisiana and East Texas, that back and forth. Dad grew up equal parts Lake Charles and San Antonio. So I have weird cousins with names like St. Paul Bourgeois. I thought for a while, how do you get that N’awlins sound? There’s no way to get that sound into some other type of song. Either you do it or you don’t do it. So with that song, I just did it with complete regard and apologies to Professor Longhair.
Q: Can you tell me about the line “Those weren’t better days but they sure meant something to me.” It’s very carefully worded so as to avoid being overly nostalgic.
A: That line definitely took a little while. But it came from this, I grew up in Nashville and I’m pretty livid about what’s happening in Nashville. Where they tear everything down with no regard for the past whatsoever. And I guess I’ve been
(bothered) about that my entire life. And I have to say, the neighborhood where I grew up: It was pretty (expletive). People got robbed, houses got broken into. So awful things happened, but that was the 12 South neighborhood. There was Sevier Park, and a few blocks over you had Sunnyside, which was a very different hood. But those were my people. And anybody that grew up in that area around Belmont (University) if they walked there now, and saw almost exclusively white faces, it would just be astounding. It was one of the oldest black neighborhoods in Nashville with a smattering of us, the white kids with single mothers who were the sons and daughters of songwriters. (Laughs.)
Q: Just the phrase “kids in the street” can be differently evocative based on where you grow up. And how old you are when you’re thinking about it.
A: I think one of the most important parts about songwriting is leaving this window open. A songwriter can use all the beautiful words he wants, but you have to leave a window open for listeners. If somebody stole one of my note pads, they’d have the same song over and over. Flip the pages, just rewrite after rewrite. But at some point, if you’re too specific with your experiences, not everybody can relate to it. So I wanted that song to be true to the title. Kids in the street. Not good or bad kids in the street. Just kids in the street. Though I specifically remember we would line up behind parked cars and throw stuff at cars going too fast. There were no parents there to stop us.
Q: You get a very different song from a 35 year old singing about being a teen than somebody
who’s 20.
A: You know what’s funny about “Kids in the Street,” I started it when I was about 18 years old. I went through and found it. I keep all my old note pads. The title grabbed me. And I knew it was something I could approach better now that I’m 35 as opposed to 18. Being married and comfortable helps me look back at that situation a little more clearly. So I’m glad I didn’t try to force it out on an early record. I needed to wait for it to happen. That’s why I keep all those note pads. Just because something doesn’t work doesn’t mean it’s a bad idea. It might’ve just been a bad time.
Q: “Same Old Stagolee” has you updating an old blues song. And “Short Hair Woman” brings up Lightnin’ Hopkins’ name. Do you see your work as just part of updating a decades-old folk-music tradition?
A: Yeah, I mean, I see those guys and those songs as kind of timeless and ageless. And I love that idea of the history that goes with a song. The reason we know who “Stag” Lee is isn’t because one guy recorded a song about him. It’s because there are 100 songs with 100 lyrics and they’re all a little different. That’s a process I see dying. There’s plenty of halfassed old-timey bands with kids in stupidlooking hats that steal old lyrics. But there’s a difference between that and expanding upon them, putting them in your own point in time. I’d like to be part of that kind of tradition. That’s one of the things dad complimented me on in my life. He said I have huge balls to approach songs like “Stagolee” and “John Henry.” I don’t know. It’s just all or nothing to me, I think.