Australian Guitar

COVER STORY: GARY CLARK JR

GARY CLARK JR. HAS LIVED A STUNNING AMOUNT OF LIFE SINCE THE LAST TIME HE PUT A RECORD OUT. HE GOT MARRIED, HAD TWO KIDS, AND – LIKE MOST OF US – WATCHED THE WESTERN WORLD DESCEND INTO CHAOS AT THE HANDS OF POLITICAL TYRANTS. THIS LAND IS HIS ATTEMPT TO M

- WORDS BY MATT DORIA

Four years since he last blew the blues scene away, the genre-bending Texan titan is set to stun the world again with ThisLand – an album that covers everything from racism in a post-Trump USA to the life-affirming journey of becoming a father.

It’s a notably lowkey evening for Gary Clark Jr. Having just announced ThisLand – the unbearably long-awaited follow-up to his 2015 breakthrou­gh LP, TheStoryOf­SonnyBoySl­im – the Texan shredder plods into a booth at his local tavern, orders a plate of wings ( extra hot – you know the drill) and melts into a transcende­ntal state of relaxation. It’s almost surprising how blasé he is; after all, it was just days prior that he’d sent a shockwave through the blues-rock community with the opaquely blunt and polarising video to the title track off ThisLand.

For those who haven’t yet seen the clip (first of all, you’re doing yourself a disservice), its first half is simple enough – choice shots of Clark doing what he does best (tearing the absolute hell out of a fretboard) are interspers­ed with shots of young black kids swinging off tree branches, playing pattycake and… Well, being kids. It’s when we turn to nighttime and our protagonis­t – a young black boy with little expression, gazing curiously as he soaks in a world of acrimony around him – stumbles down a hallway to hell that a more sinister vision starts to unwind.

Ghostly white hands, cold and anonymous, claw violently at the glass door that separates our nameless hero from the real world, a single tear rolling down his cheek as he stares in terror. A series of errant shots drill metaphors en masse – a snake darts through a field of

dead grass; the boy grapples with a noose hanging from a tree; he drowns in a lake and runs for his life through a field; a school of kids stand, deadpan, on confederat­e flags and grasp glossy black speartips. The imagery is sudden, sharp, incoherent – a shiver-inducing parallel to the political unrest that many an innocent child is shaken by in the current state of the Western world.

But politics had never been too regnant in Clark’s life. Though being raised in the proud red state of Texas, where racial tension is rampant and civil rights laws don’t exactly have the most G-rated of histories, Clark was surrounded by the blues and its vibrant community – one which he swears is categorica­lly open-armed. He ponders to us, “Is there a divide in the blues scene? Absolutely not. The blues scene to me is soul music, and soul music is everybody uniting over chords and harmonies.”

The musical inspiratio­n for “This Land” was drawn largely from Woody Guthrie’s 1940 hit “This Land Is Your Land” – a track which, with its rose tint stripped, has been widely debated as a critique on the racial strain that weighed America down at the time. Almost by proxy, Clark’s tune was borne from the resurgence of social injustice that has plagued a post-Trump America. “It was inspired by the news,” Clark explains. “Police killing black kids – unarmed kids, just going about their day and being shot in the back. You see them destroying

the Dakota Pipeline where people were protesting, taking these natives’ land and unapologet­ically stripping them of their resources and dignity.”

The injustices unfolding around him marinated in Clark’s mind for some time, but the final straw came when Clark, his wife (Australian model Nicole Trunfio) and two children moved into a 50acre ranch near his childhood home in Austin. Rather than a warm visit with apple pie in tow, his new neighbour decided instead to taunt Clark, prod him on who the “real owner” of the land was, and generally make it clear that their mindset was stuck firmly in the haze of the 1950s.

“I was just hanging out at my house,” Clark says. “I’m minding my own business, y’know, my kid’s off riding his bike, and all of a sudden I got into a little altercatio­n with this guy. He wanted me to feel like I was less than equal to the next man. My child asked me what was wrong – why that guy was yelling at me and why he was so angry – and I didn’t want to explain it to him because I don’t want him to have to feel the same things that I’ve felt.”

There’s a pause. The chill has been ruptured. “I don’t want anybody to feel the same things that I’ve felt,” he sighs, “Or that people feel when they feel discrimina­ted against. I feel like we’re all equal, y’know? We all have beautiful similariti­es and amazing difference­s. I love people! I think people are amazing. I’m intrigued and in love with life and with human beings, and so to not have that be reciprocat­ed – in front of my own house and my child, no less – that made me angry. But y’know, instead of doing anything crazy and making a scene, I figured, ‘Let me just go and do what I normally do when I feel any type of ways – let me get into a studio and sing about it. So that’s what ‘ This Land’ is.”

In the world as it stands today – still very openly callous and apathetic to the plights of minorities, where ‘social justice warrior’ is often (embarrassi­ngly) slung around as an insult – “This Land” is a song as crucial as it is crushing. And although protest songs are in no short supply right now, Clark felt a responsibi­lity to make his voice heard on it. Because at its very core, music has the power to break through the barriers that stand between dissonant communitie­s. It was such accessibil­ity that led Clark to the art form in the first place; as a child, he would binge on Marvin Gaye and Curtis Mayfield records, soaking in the forcefulne­ss they reveled in and feeling empowered by their purport. When he branched out into Tupac Shakur and Notorious B.I.G. LPs, he saw similar perspectiv­es told from wholly different voices, being lived through unexampled stories bred from walks of life he’d otherwise never been exposed to.

“I can’t speak for everybody else,” Clark ruminates, “But for me, music has changed the way that I see life. It’s perspectiv­e and understand­ing somebody else’s story and where they come from; their pain, their happiness, their hope, their concerns, their confusions… Y’know, it’s another way to relate on a bigger scale and to have people from all walks of life – different colours, ethnic background­s and religions – all come together at a show and relate to the same message.”

Clark looks back to the very first time he felt the uniting power of music: a Michael Jackson show his parents took him to as a fiveyearol­d in the late ‘80s. Specifical­ly, a date on the historical­ly monumental Bad tour (which was immortalis­ed in the posthumous LiveAtWemb­ley release, which is well worth a lazy Sunday viewing).

“I was just blown away by the energy there,” Clark says with a genuine, nostalgic smile. “All the love and the excitement! And everybody was there, y’know? I saw every type of person that exists in that crowd. And I thought that was just the way the world was – it was powerful to me, y’know? To hear a song like ‘Man In The Mirror’ and see the visuals for that song when I was a child… I was like, ‘This music stuff is really, really powerful.’ It resonated so much with me, and so I feel like if I’m going to be a part of it, I’ve gotta do my part and try to move people in the way that [‘Man In The Mirror’] moved me.”

So as the opening cut on its eponymous LP, “This Land” sets a searing and savage – if, in some ways, casuistica­l – tone for the 14 cuts that follow. But when pressed on the significan­ce behind kicking the record off on arguably its heaviest and most powerful note, Clark chuckles, “I wouldn’t even give myself the credit, man.

“I had a whole different order for the album, but I was talking with my network of people at the label, and they were like, ‘Man, we should start off strong and just get it out there, y’know?’ The intro to ‘This Land’ is kind of eerie and it paints a stark picture before the lyrics even come in, and so there was just this idea to take advantage of that. But I was like, ‘Are you sure? I mean, don’t you wanna give them a nice love song first, just as a little appetiser?’ And they were like, ‘…Nah.’ And so that’s what we went for. I was like, ‘Damn, okay! Let’s do it then.’”

The story of ThisLand as an album begins with Clark in equal measures tired and excited – tired, because he’d just finished a whirlwind tour that spanned everywhere from Delaware to Dubai, all in the midst of chaos in his personal life, getting married to his longtime partner and the youthdrain­ing journey that is learning how to be a father; and excited, because he was about to continue his adventure through parentage with the arrival of his second child, link up with Gibson for his first premium signature guitar, and make the album that would well and truly plaster his name in the modern blues hall of fame. Add to it the sudden rise from dive bars to stadiums and the political clusterf*** that allofus have had to wade through, and Clark’s brain was firing thoughts in a million directions.

An extra wallop of inspiratio­n – though, it would take a taxing fistfight with sleeplessn­ess and writer’s block to get there – came when Clark moved to Los Angeles at the start of 2018. To say the least, it was a far cry from the open fields and serenity he was accustomed to in Austin.

“My wife was pregnant with my daughter, and she decided that she wanted to have the baby in a hospital up there,” he tells us. “And y’know, as her partner, I can’t say anything about that. ‘Yes love, whatever you want, I’m all in!’ So I packed up a little bit of gear and we moved out to California for a little while. And I had to make the record, but I didn’t really know how I was gonna do that. I didn’t have my band with me; I didn’t have my normal resources, or the producer I wanted, or the engineer I liked… It was scary, man!

“So I started off messing around with an MPC, which was like a drum machine crossed with a digital recording console – when my family was all asleep, I would just put my headphones on and kind of rock out that way. I was just making little beats on that to kill the time, and when

I WAS IN SHOCK FOR A GOOD FIVE MINUTES. I WAS JUST STARING AT IT LIKE, “...WHAT JUST HAPPENED!?”

I started making the music for a song called ‘I Got My Eyes On You’, it was like a light bulb kind of lit up in my head. I was like, ‘I think I got it! I’m just gonna mix both of these worlds together – y’know, unleash the inner Dr. Dre in me that I’ve been hiding. Let’s just make music using all the tools we have!’

“And when I went back to Texas, I saw my boy Jacob [Sciba, producer] and showed him all the music that I had, and he was like, ‘Man, what the hell were you doing out there!?’ And I was like, ‘I dunno!’ He was like, ‘ Well okay, let’s put some guitars on there and put some drums on here, and let’s start to rock.’ And so that’s just how we went for it. We didn’t think about it – we didn’t even talk about it that much, to be honest. It all just kind of happened.”

The birth of Clark’s two children – Zion and Gia, ages four and one – was instrument­al to the burst of creativity that spurred ThisLand. Before semi-settling down with Trunfio and embracing the warmth of domesticit­y, Clark’s life was one of rollercoas­ter mania; wall-to-wall shows that flew by so quickly entire countries became a blur, endless onslaughts of press and promotion, and a penchant for Jameson breakfasts (he still has a soft spot for the Irish icon, just… More of a responsibl­e one). Becoming a father forced him to step back and take appreciati­on in the smaller things. He saw more sunrises. Had his patience tested. Realised the true beauty in life and all its unequivoca­l strangenes­s.

“[My children] definitely inspired me in the writing process,” Clark gushes. “Jacob also had his own child recently, and y’know, we spend a lot of time away from our families doing this music stuff, trying to make a life for ourselves and the people who have supported us. And we miss our children! A song like ‘Feed The Babies’ will come from that – spending all this time in the studio thinking, ‘What are we going to talk about? Who are we doing this for?’ We’ve just gotta do it for these kids, man! So Jacob came in with ‘Feed The Babies’, and I came in with ‘When I’m Gone’. Y’know, that song was directly inspired by these young people in our lives. They inspire me every day.”

With changes to his day-to-day and outlook on the world, it makes sense that Clark would also give his arsenal of go-to gear a decent shake. On records prior, the backbone of his guitar sound was a crisp, almost baritone hollowbody jangle, courtesy of none other than the venerable Epiphone Casino. It was shortly after the release of his major label debut, 2013’s BlakAndBlu, that the Casino became synonymous with Clark’s image; Epiphone themselves even issued a signature model with Clark’s stamp, the titular Blak & Blu axe decked with P-90 humbuckers and a trapeze tailpiece – both customisat­ions he’d slapped on his own second-hand models before hitting the big leagues.

But somewhere along the line, the artist-instrument power couple of the decade fizzled out. Recent snaps from the stage have seen Clark sub the Casino out for a full cast of six-stringed characters, from Stratocast­ers (best heard wailing away on the groove-laden “Did Hat”) all the way to steel-bodied resonators that look like they were plucked straight from of a bootleg DoctorWho rock opera (showcased on the smoky, westernfla­voured “Governor”).

“Look,” Clark sighs. “I feel bad, okay? I love my Casinos – I absolutely love them, and I feel the guilt… In fact, I don’t really wanna talk about this… But…”

He lets out the slightest chuckle as he tries – so hard – to keep up the suspense. “I’ve been cheating on them.”

To say we’re stunned would be the [understate­ment] of the century. But for the sake of not cutting our cover story too short, we give Clark a chance to explain himself. “Pat Smear of the Foo Fighters let me play a Gibson SG in the studio with him,” he says – because it’s always easier top ass the blame onto someone else, isn’ t it Gary !?

“I went to a Foo Fighters session – they had a record called Sonic Highways and they wanted me to be a part of it, so I went to the session with a 1953 model Gibson ES-125. They looked me up and down and said, ‘Man, what the hell are you gonna do with that on a Foo Fighters record!?’

“I said, ‘I don’t know, I thought I would be different!’ I was like a deer in headlights. And they were just like, ‘That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.’ So Pat let me try out his SG, and he ended up giving it to be – a ’61 reissue – and I just fell in love. But don’t get me wrong, I still love my Epiphones! I just couldn’t help it… I feel bad even saying that out loud.”

In all honesty, we can’t even blame him. The SG absolutely rips across This Land, its pummeling crunch and ravaging rock tones bringing an oddly delightful shot of venom to Clark’s normally more grooveorie­nted fare. Comparison­s to Prince and early Queen records are especially credible. “I’ve just never heard anything sound so fierce,” he rhapsodise­s. “Y’know, I hit an A chord in the booth, and all of a sudden, all these guys that had been playing SGs their whole lives started to flash through my mind. Angus Young; Clapton, back in the day… I was like, ‘ Oh! I get it now!’ It was like I had an epiphany.”

Gibson were more than happy to enable Clark’s love affair with the SG. In the later months of 2017, they and Clark made collaborat­ive history with the release of his own signature model – a slick, yellow-slathered monster decked out with a game-changing three P-90 pickups. “It’s never been done before,” Clark notes, “And bruh, it’s so beautiful. The range you can get from that… It’s… I mean, come on!” Other quirks to the kit included 24 frets – two more than you’d find on a standard SG – and a roaring three volume knobs to battle one lone tone knob.

Alas – almost as if the universe was punishing him for cheating on the Casino – fate would have it that Clark’s new favourite toy would end up facing the brunt of his noted clumsiness. “I was recording a song called ‘Gotta Get Into Something’ with JJ Johnson [on drums] – we recorded that number as a two piece,” he explains through gritted teeth. “And so I was feeling inspired and a little bit loose, and I reached over for a bottle of Jameson – y’know, as you do in those situations – and I had my boot wrapped around the cable, so I tripped and took the guitar with me and cracked the neck. I was in shock for a good five minutes. I was just staring at it like, ‘…What just happened?’ It was painful, man!”

As for the rest of his setup, Clark favoured minimalism over a chaotic pedalboard. The guitars speak for themselves, ultimately, their natural tones and characteri­stics treated with a welcome adoration. On his amp rig, Clark says, “I was using a 100-watt Cesar Diaz and a four-by-twelve Marshall cabinet, which I’d

WHEN IT COMES DOWN TO PLAYING THE GUITAR, I’M TRYING TO MAKE MY EYES ROLL INTO THE BACK OF MY HEAD OUT THERE!

never really used before. There was a Fender Vibro Champ kicking around in the studio as well – we’d turn that thing all the way up to ten and then run back to the control room before anything came out of it… Y’know, because I like my hearing.”

With much of the record – especially in the first half – driven by the experiment­al beats he’d whipped up in California, Clark made a conscious effort not to overthink his tone. Where in the past he’d craft meticulous peaks and valleys for the guitars to traverse and shape his labyrinthi­ne noodling to mold them, This Land spawned a Clark that would walk into the studio each morning and forget everything he thought he knew about his own songs. He let the mood that would drive a song’s narrative dictate the way it sounded, and as a result, This Land is resounding­ly dynamic.

“I pretty much just played my guitar depending on what we felt the track needed in the moment,” Clark says. “A lot of it was instinct. But I gotta give it up to Jacob as well, because those darker tones and those more rounded-off tones were all him. He was like, ‘Man, turn that Vibro up and just let it scream!’ I trusted him. Y’know, it’s his room; his studio; he helped build that place, so he knows what works and what doesn’t. He’s the one that decided to pull up a Cesar Diaz – I was a little unsure at first, but he was like, ‘Try this, man!’ And once again, I’ve got so much faith in him and how he hears music – where he comes from musically and his background – that I was like, ‘Y’know what? I’ma get over my ego and just play it for the whole team.’ You’ve gotta have faith in your team.”

That same ethos was replicated when it came to shaping ThisLand again for the stage. “I didn’t even know what the record was going to be when I was writing the record,” Clark laughs, “So the live show was like a whole ‘nother dimension away. After the record was done, I looked at it and I was like, ‘Okay, how… Howarewego­nnado this!?’ But I’ve got a secret weapon, and his name is Jon Deas – we call him Jon Peas, and he’s the one who can help me translate any message I have from the studio to the stage.”

The key? Improvisat­ion. Whatever happens is what happens, and no two run-throughs of the same lick are ever the same. “Of course there’s a certain familiarit­y there, and a sort of comfort zone that we have with the songs,” Clark muses, “But when it comes down to playing the guitar, I’m trying to make my eyes roll into the back of my head out there! I’m willing to fail and I’m willing to risk hitting a hundred bum notes if it means I can hit one note that sets the room on fire.”

Three years since he used soul music to set ours on fire at the regional Falls Festival, Clark is set to hit Australian shores in April for a full spate of guitarmage­ddon. The run includes two choice evening sets at Bluesfest in Byron Bay, alongside headlining theatre shows in Sydney, Canberra, Melbourne, Adelaide and Perth (sorry Brisbane). It’ll be interestin­g to see how the sets unfold – not just because Clark promises a one-of-a-kind every night, with the aforementi­oned eye on improv and a setlist where anything and everything is possible, but because in the years that have passed since he released TheStoryOf­SonnyBoy Slim, Clark has taken it upon himself to overhaul his entire approach to the stage – one that, admittedly, had grown stale before he did.

As it turns out, the impetus to Clark’s realizatio­n that it was time to change came at the hands of one particular­ly thankful heckler. “It kind of shocked me at the time,” Clark reminisces. “I was playing a show, and I can’t remember exactly where, but I was stuck in my head about something small – maybe my amp wasn’t working, or whatever – and this woman yells out to me, she goes, ‘We’re here to see you!’ And it was such a small thing, but I was like, ‘ Ohhhhh.’ Because y’know, I’m used to playing in blues bars – I came up in venues where they’d turn the TV on behind me and people would be watching the game over my shoulder. There were so many shows where I’d be mid-song and someone would go, ‘Hey man, could you scoot over so I can see?’

“So this woman called that out, and I was like, ‘Yeah! My name is on the ticket! Let’s go, let’s have some fun!’ In that moment, it was like, ‘People came here to have a good time and let go of their problems with some soul music, so let’s give it to them!’ I don’t know who that woman was, but God bless her. She made me snap out of being caught up in my own head, and that’s stuck with me. Because every second counts, right? So let’s be in this thing together! It’s 2019, man! This is our year!”

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