Minneapolis Does Denver & She

One afternoon, probably in the spring of 1995, John “Strawberry” Fields visited my dilapidated apartment in Dinkytown. He was producing his tribute album to John Denver and wanted to meet up to see if I wanted to collaborate on a track. Our mutual friend, Mike Ruekberg, the leader of one of my favorite Minneapolis bands Rex Daisy, had told Fields about my band.

Strawberrius, as many knew him, made stuff happen like I’d never seen before. First, he had the backing of his uncle Steven Greenberg, the writer/producer behind the Lipps Inc. smash #1 hit “Funkytown”. Second, he was all swagger and didn’t hesitate telling you about all that he could do for you. Third, and this would blow my mind, I would probably never meet anyone more adept at making music, of any kind, on any instrument, instantly, and putting it together in a way that sounded amazing.

I showed him my dog-eared book of sheet music for John Denver’s Greatest Hits album, as proof that Denver was one of my Gods – starting at piano lessons in the 6th grade. My favorite Denver song, one that was probably too obscure and saccharine for any one else to cover was “Sweet Surrender”. I’m guessing that my willingness to not insist on recording one of the bigger hits like “Thank God I’m A Country Boy” was the deal-clincher.

Within weeks we were at his Funkytown Studios in Golden Valley cutting the track with drummer Dorian Crozier and a guest artist that I insisted sing and play piano, John Eric Thiede, founder of the popular jump/swing group The Strawdogs.

My idea was to give it a bluesy shuffle, leaving room for plenty of improvisation and looseness. Thiede, was a riot, singing in his faux-Satchmo voice and banging out swinging riffs on the 88’s. Strawberrius & Dorian blew me away, cutting the track completely live, John engineering it as he played bass with us all. I’d never recorded with people who seemed to be reading my mind. Playing in the moment was a familiar sensation, as my recently broken-up Trio proves, but I’d never made music with people who played in the future!

We had fun that night, ending with beers at Bennington’s next store to the studio. Despite the feel-good session, I don’t remember thinking that I’d entered a whole new chapter of my life. But I had. Within a few months, somewhere around the release of MINNEAPOLIS DOES DENVER, Strawberrius would again call. This time wanting to know if I had songs written for a new record. He suggested that maybe he could sign me to his uncle’s October Records. I told him I’d assemble a cassette of song demos and pop by the studio.

My only memory of that meeting was John more or less pinning me to a fabric-covered wall outside the control room, looking me in the eye, pointing his finger and forcibly asking, “So are you a star?!?!”

Now, you have to realize that Garrison Keillor’s Lake Woebegone depiction of Minnesota is a very real thing. Cocksure people who speak bluntly are rare. So, I wasn’t prepared to respond to a question like this. I probably uttered a luke warm “yeah, sure” or maybe even “uhhhh, probably not.” But in any case, I must’ve passed some kind of audition.

In the coming days or weeks John called me and said he really liked a lot of the demos. Later I’d find out that he’d shared the cassette with Ken Chastain, leader of the fiercely funky band Beat The Clock. Ken would eventually play all over the resulting album. This meant a lot to me because Ken was an extremely versatile and exacting player. My Trio had toured the same bar circuit as Beat The Clock in the Midwest, and even in the Virgin Islands, but I always felt like a hack when sharing a bill with those cats.

Soon, Unc came and saw one of my gigs at the Loring Bar, and by early 1996 I had signed a two record deal with October. Mike Ruekberg, Dorian Crozier, Ken Chastain, John and I were the core of what would become SHE.

I doubt I’ll ever have more fond memories of making a record. Primarily because it was finished within two weeks––pretty much fully mixed!

Second, John worked with such confidence and speed that often all I could do was laugh in sheer awe.

Third, when we first met over John Denver, Fields had glimpsed my collection of vinyl records, mostly compiled during a year working at the Wax Museum record store in Dinkytown. John suggested I start pre-production by ripping vinyl samples onto a DAT tape (remember this is 1996, well before all this was de rigeur).

Lastly, anything I could suggest would be achieved: rumbas, swing, sample manipulations, splicing together of different tracks, sonic references to anything I wished, indulging me in any attempt to reference “Meet The Beatles”, to “Magical Mystery Tour”, to “The White Album” – you get the idea.

Up until this point I’d co-produced my own records and wasn’t ever capable of sounding like anything but me. I wasn’t the type of musician who could mimic others. John could. This created a wonderful balance, but not without some conflict.

John could make me feel pretty low about my abilities. For instance, I was not a first or second or third take guitarist. More like tenth. And I’d hear about it as the session dragged on.

Furthermore, I liked to record things and then reconsider them, not trusting myself enough to commit. John was completely ruled by his instincts and sure of decisions. Also, he hammered on me to sing with accurate pitch like no one before or since. With only a tape machine, and certainly no digital tuning software, he’d be grabbing single words or even just syllables from my performances as I re-sang vocals. I’d never seen anyone work at such a granular level.

Keep in mind that the album was recorded on bulky two-inch tape, not on an easily-edited digital system. Usually there was only one open track available for lead vocals and it had to be edited in the camera by John––not later as we paged through twenty takes of colorful sine waves on a computer screen, like we do now. John was a wonder with the gear, and when I couldn’t keep pace he’d get frustrated and start making decisions for me.

Most nights I’d come home from the sessions feeling my record was being torn away from me – which in hindsight is preposterous. He was forcing me to confront my limitations and push myself farther than I could go. It hurt and it hurt.

I remember yelling matches and a couple grudge session between John and I, sometimes ending with him bitterly acquiescing at something I suggested, or me holding back a pit in my stomach as he did something that I felt wasn’t ‘me’. But the fight was good, and the perfection of the record (in my opinion) proves it. Nothing great happens easily. And our relationship was young enough, and the excitement about Unc’s label and John’s studio was enough to focus us on getting it done and making it great.

Towards the end of the sessions, during an initial listen through of the completed tracks, realizing that we’d made a pretty cool record, I turned and said to John, “wow, a million little decisions made this amazing thing.” While hardly a quote from the Gettysburg address, it still resonates with me when I think of making great art. Nothing ever happens in an instant, it’s always the accumulation of a million different things.

It would’ve been easier had we made an understated album, rather than one so inventive and naively wondrous. It probably would’ve sold more copies than SHE did. But the chance to explore the boundaries of our creative impulses was too alluring, and the opportunity to again work at the juncture where new technologies, new friendships and new songs all come together simultaneously will probably never occur again in my career with the same freshness and sudden impact.