KEVIN
FOWLER –
One Day of the Journey for a Rockin’ Redneck Rebel Soul
By Tammy Moore, Photos by Jonathan McPhail
It has been said that we don’t dream in color, but you
have to wonder about a young Texas father that wakes from
his dreams on a cold January morning in Austin, his mind spinning
with the fine points of his life. He got in late last night
from Nashville, Tennessee where he spends a lot of time these
days writing songs and finalizing negotiations for the recording
deal he has finally agreed to sign. It’s his turn to
take 9-year-old Darian to school, and after that it’s
off to the gym for a workout. He and his band have a gig tonight
in Waco, Texas where they are expected to play in front of
seven thousand people. He’ll meet the band and crew
at the regular tour bus departure spot when they are scheduled
to leave town at 1 p.m. But before that, he has to put in
some time dealing with the lawsuit he has pending against
a distribution company that made off with tens of thousands
of his band’s hard earned money before the business
folded.
He plays country music these days, but a writer and photographer
from a local rock magazine want to do a story on his outlaw
band. So he has invited them to accompany his posse on today’s
road trip. The writer is an old friend from the days when
they were both scenesters in the heavy metal community. He’s
happy to have them along, but still, it is one more thing
to think about…entertaining guests. He recently fired
his guitar player, and he’s agreed to let a hopeful
new kid ride along today, too, and join the band on stage
for a couple of songs. He still has to teach the guy some
guitar parts, but that can be done on the ride there. He knows
from experience that, once the band arrives in Waco tonight,
there will be a lot to do before his head will hit the pillow
again. On top of all that, somebody has to clean that bus
before it starts to spin towards the night’s destination,
and it looks like that somebody is going to be him.
The
First Cut Is the Deepest
Kevin Fowler’s dreams used to be exactly like those
of many of kids that grow up in smallish Texas oil and cattle
towns. The goal is simple: get out. It isn’t that there
are never any good times. It is simply that people in towns
like that have a tendency to get way too comfortable in their
lives and routines. Before you know it, one day isn’t
much different from the next, and for a soul that craves adventure,
the question looms like a dark cloud overhead, “Is this
all there is?” These are the kinds of towns where people
dig in to “put down roots,” and Amarillo is no
different. That same feeling of day-to-day redundancy can
create a strange psychological security that encompasses those
that live there for any length of time. Growing up in the
Texas Panhandle surrounded by working ranches that still adhere
to the work ethics and routines that came about when they
were founded in the 1800s, can create admiration and fierce
ties to the yellow soils you’re stomping on. And what
is the background music that plays non-stop as a boy comes
of age in this slow-moving world? It takes a lot of rednecks
to support the thriving blue-collar industry of Amarillo,
and rednecks love their country music.
As a teenager it seems natural to rebel against your surroundings
and gravitate towards the stuff your parents’ nightmares
are made of. Strap a guitar on an attractive young male and
combine the rebel attitude with the ability to play the provocative
strains of taboo rock and roll, and you possess one no-fail
recipe for attracting the opposite sex. Getting girls can
practically become a matter of sport for guys that grow up
in places where there isn’t much else to do. But even
that can get old.
Fowler was the adventurous type and was obsessed with his
guitar. He let those two passions lead him to Los Angeles,
California where he attended the Guitar Institute of Technology
and mastered the instrument. After tasting life in the big
city, he was looking for anywhere to go except Amarillo, and
although his intent was just to pass through Austin, once
he got here, he never left.
He found work at The Austin Chronicle, delivering papers by
day, and at night he played guitar in rock bands like The
Tribe and Rumbletrain. Those gigs led to a stint with The
Dangerous Toys whose record went gold and whose videos became
MTV staples. It was a great opportunity for the rocker with
the mane of straight red hair that was practically down to
his ankles. He paid attention and learned a lot about the
music business then. But Fowler wasn’t born to be a
side-man, and he noticed that many of the songs he was writing
at the time weren’t exactly metal tunes. They rocked,
for sure, but the underlying tone that was developing was
more akin to Skynyrd than Slayer. Eventually he had to break
away from the Toys and create an outlet for this sound that
was emerging. He formed a band in 1995 called Thunderfoot
that ultimately served as a transitional project. He was able
to indulge both his hard rock showmanship skills and the southern
rock tendencies he was leaning towards at the time. Standard
fare at a Thunderfoot show was the sight of Fowler setting
steel guitars on fire.
It was also the Thunderfoot project that brought him together
with bass player, Clay Karch. With intentions of playing guitar
here, Karch had moved to Austin from Colorado, and when a
mutual friend introduced the two long hairs (Karch’s
thick brunette mane remains at mid-thigh level to this day),
Fowler was looking for a bass player that would be willing
to travel. When asked if he could play bass, Karch lied and
said yes. He got the gig anyway, and the two have been playing
together ever since.
It was during these travels that Karch says it became a regular
occurrence to have nothing but country artists blaring through
the speakers as road trip entertainment. Soon, the music that
was naturally flowing out of Fowler was pure country, and
it was time for another new outlet, and a homecoming of sorts,
the Kevin Fowler Band.
The
Texas Music Revolution
It started out as a way to play the music in whatever joint
that would have them and to drink a lot of beer. Steel guitarist
Glenn Suchan was hired and they secured a Tuesday night residency
at a Sixth Street rock club. They began to play their brand
of honky-tonk country to unsuspecting patrons along with friends
and fans they recruited through typical Austin grassroots
promotions. His hair was still long then, and Fowler decided
to record a CD to reflect his new sound. Daren Fleming, a
newly transplanted buddy from Amarillo, happened to be a really
good sound engineer, and together they laid the tracks for
the first Fowler record, One for the Road, in Mi Casa studios
(read: Fowler’s bedroom) on an 8-track recorder. Fowler
expected a big backlash due to the extreme nature of his musical
conversion, but the record garnered some rave reviews by country
music devotees and forced people to give the cross-over artist
a serious look.
The band took to the road in support of the record and began
laying the foundation for a fan base that has grown exponentially
over the past five years. Growing very comfortable in his
country music skin, Fowler lost the long locks and started
preparing to write another record. He had two hundred dollars
as a budget to record the CD, and again he recruited Fleming
to work with him on the project. In 2000, the Beer, Bait and
Ammo record was released to a crowd who, at first, gave it
a mediocre reception. They played the record’s title
track at live shows without a particular reaction to it. That
was discouraging to the band, who had set a goal to sell at
least 900 copies of the new CD. As fate would have it, a DJ
from a local, now-defunct radio station added the title track
of the record to his play list, and soon the song was picked
up by Austin’s KVET and put in rotation alongside the
likes of Tim McGraw and Garth Brooks. Other reporting stations
like Dallas’ KSCS, The Wolf, and WACO 100 followed suit,
and the scheme of things began to change. The outlaw country-influenced
song was a great contrast to the country pop that floods the
airwaves today, and fans reacted accordingly. Within nine
weeks, the record had sold over 9,000 copies and, at last
count, had sold over 37,000 units without the help of label
support at all. The attention landed him in the middle of
the movement known as the New Texas Music Revolution that
boasts artists like Cory Morrow, Pat Green, and Robert Earl
Keen.
That was a good year, and it was also the year that brought
drummer Ronn Dixon into the fold. Dixon had played with the
likes of Eric Johnson and Stevie Ray Vaughan and was a classmate
of Nanci Griffith’s. After a one on one audition that
consisted of two hours of Fowler playing various guitar parts
and asking, “What would you play with this,” Dixon
knew he had the gig when Fowler picked up the phone and told
Karch, “grab your bass and get your ass over here.”
The success of Beer, Bait and Ammo allowed their third record,
2002’s High on the Hog, to be recorded at Willie Nelson’s
Eternals Studios, and Nelson himself agreed to lay down some
guitar and vocal tracks as a guest performer. The experience
was exhilarating for the band and for Fleming who was asked
again to engineer and co-produce. Last year, Live at Billy
Bob’s Texas was released and helped trigger an endorsement
deal with Dodge. The Dodge truck commercial that features
Fowler’s “100% Texan,” coupled with an additional
endorsement by Budweiser, has helped to boost sales even more
for Fowler’s records and brought undreamed of exposure
for the band.
To
Whom Much Is Given, Much Is Required
In the Gospel according to Luke, the good Lord speaks to a
thought worth examining when He says, “To whom much
is given, much is required.” It is a line of thinking
that is in direct correlation to the proverb of reaping what
we sow. What may appear to be sheer luck, at least in terms
of the music business, is probably, in truth, the result of
a tremendous amount of hard work. When the bus pulled into
the venue that Friday afternoon, the band first had to survey
the surroundings of the dirt floored coliseum they would be
performing in a few hours later. They check the lay out of
the room and stage set up while merch man Billy Applegate
scouts a location to set up shop. Headliner Johnny Lee’s
band is already sound checking, so greetings must be made.
Fleming, who now also acts as the band’s live sound
engineer as well as their road manager, reminds Fowler that
he has a radio promo spot at 5 p.m. that day. Equipment has
to be unloaded. Though at this point, the band does it themselves.
They are told there will only be a quick line check before
the show, so Fowler and most of the group head back to the
bus to start their interview with yours truly while new guitar
strings are strung. The interview is interrupted by the announcement
that the dinner that has been provided in the hospitality
suite for all the night’s performers is ready and following
that there will be a “meet and greet” that Fowler
must attend to thank all the sponsors of that night’s
show.
There is only a little over an hour before show time, and
Fowler and the band return to the bus to find guests waiting.
One is Gloria Locke, none other than the mother of Poodie
Locke, who the band says is the oldest living roadie in music
today (he is Nelson’s stage manager) and the only non-musician
in the Country Music Hall of Fame. The lively Locke boards
the bus sporting her walking cane and diamonds and tells Fowler
to be a sweetheart and to “make Mama a drink.”
Her drink of choice is “yella wine,” but since
he is out of tequila, Fowler offers her whiskey or scotch.
Scotch will do, she informs him, and he happily prepares her
drink while at the same time visiting with friends, A.L. and
Carolyn Lang, who are a such big fans of the band that they
follow them all over Texas, making sure to see them at least
twice, sometimes three times a month.
It’s about thirty minutes to show time now, and the
visitors and some of the band head back to the venue. Fowler
sits calmly on one of the couches, warming up his guitar with
various licks. Photographer Jonathan McPhail wants to know
if Fowler remembers anything from his days in rock and roll,
and Fowler effortlessly bends the strings into the chorus
of Dangerous Toys’ “Teasin’ Pleasin.’”
It’s time to change for the show, so a pony-tailed Karch
retreats to the back of the bus to change, and Fowler removes
the KISS T-shirt he’s been sporting all day and replaces
it with a shimmery blue western shirt adorned with embroidered
red roses. He brushes his teeth and returns the black cowboy
hat to his head as Karch comes through the door. The bassist’s
Hard Rock Café leather jacket has been traded for a
brown western shirt and a funky straw hat, complete with a
striking rattlesnake hatband that sits on top of the hair,
which is now loose, brushed and flowing in all its glory.
Both men’s shirttails are out and hang comfortably over
snug Levi’s jeans and cowboy boots. The effect of the
finished transformations is, well…captivating.
It is finally time to head to the coliseum, and though they
try to slip in quietly through a back door, they are recognized
by fans and stopped for autographs and whatever chatter they
have time to give. Brave girls are breaking through security
for a chance to speak to Fowler. No one is rebuffed.
With fully stocked bars, the party atmosphere is in full swing,
and the tension is building as the crowd waits for the band
they have come to see. When the guys take the stage and are
finally introduced, the crowd of thousands erupts in screams
of welcome and satisfaction. Dixon counts off, and the first
note sounds. Fowler greets the crowd with an impish grin as
a smiling Karch shuffles backwards teasing the audience with
old school country rhythms. Fiery fiddle player, Chris Whitten,
adds an ambiance reminiscent of the days of the Grand Ole
Opry when country entertainers were adorned with rhinestones
and studded belts bigger than some Texas creeks. With their
unconventional look that combines country with 70s arena rock
band chic, they are the embodiment of a new breed of outlaw,
and the crowd is going wild. These fans know this music, as
evidenced when the band breaks into their signature anthem,
“Beer, Bait and Ammo.” Thousands of voices can
be heard singing along with the catchy refrain. This approach
to pleasing the crowd falls in line with the Kevin Fowler
philosophy which is, “Don’t bore us. Give us the
chorus.” It is a concept he adopted from Dangerous Toys’
drummer Mark Geary. Fowler claims this band isn’t here
to change the world. It exists only to provoke a good time.
Over an hour later, the performance ends, and the next phase
of Fowler’s day, the “merch table phenomenon,”
is about to get under way. After the show, Fowler quickly
makes his way back to the booth where Applegate, who co-writes
songs with Fowler, is already hard at work selling KF merchandise
left and right. As he approaches the table, girls began to
scream his name, and he picks up a pen and starts signing
shirts, caps, koozies, panties, pictures, even arms and one
prosthetic leg. Over the past five years Fowler has signed
everything from babies to trucks. He poses for pictures, offers
handshakes, and gives hugs to everyone that wants one. He
won’t stop until not one person is left standing, and
that process lasts well past the headliner’s show ending
and the house lights being turned on. It happens at every
show, and the only autograph he’s ever refused to sign
was when he was asked to sign on a KKK membership card.
He keeps in mind that a great predecessor once made every
one of his fans in the early days by doing this very thing…Willie
Nelson practically invented the art of giving back to the
people who put you where you are.
Upon returning to the bus after the show, he spots three adolescent
boys with their parents trying to peek into the bus, so he
invites them all on board along with Veronica Alejo-Waits,
another fan that travels Texas, seeing the band as often as
she can. She bonded with them the night they were all nearly
killed in Fort Worth when a drunk driver drove through the
wall of the club the band has just played. The three star-struck
boys try to keep their cool as Kevin Fowler himself dispenses
advice on girls. Finally, once everyone exits the bus, boots
and hats come off, and the hair goes back in ponytails. Beers
are popped open, but as the bus heads back towards Austin
at around 2 a.m., they still can’t stop. They still
have to finish this interview.
Why
Nashville Blows and Jerry Jeff Walker Rocks
When an established Nashville manager took an interest in
the band and started bringing the suits to see them, the labels’
reaction was usually, “That’s great, but…what
if we do it like this?” Much like another Texas outlaw,
Waylon Jennings, who was notorious for unleashing a string
of profanity on record execs that tried to tell him how to
do things, Fowler’s band is uncompromising in their
quest to make their music their way.
He
knows that Music City has unwittingly provided a new niche,
that someone need only step into and fill, in their relentless
onslaught of force-fed country pop that permeates the radio.
It is not unlike the rock movement phenomenon that he and
his compadres witnessed in the early 90s when the grunge movement
eradicated all things glam. The band is of the belief that
when labels control radio play lists, as they do everywhere
in the country, with the exception of Texas, it is far too
easy for these idol makers to use their resources to manufacture
artists and roll them through the “Nashville Machine.”
It goes something like this. Take this pretty girl or that
good-looking guy, create an image, insist the new “artist”
record songs written by songwriters of the label’s choice,
ones who are paid to write hits, of course, and then force
radio stations to play those songs day in and day out. Easy
enough, and then the labels sit back and rake in the dough.
The seemingly successful Nashville artist with the gold record
and a leased tour bus (unlike Fowler’s band who own
theirs), might still be borrowing money to eat at Burger King,
since they won’t see a penny of a return until all the
money that has been invested in them has been recouped. And
the masses will follow for only so long, and then they get
bored and start looking for something new anyway. Like these
savvy outlaws point out, if an artist’s fans are created
for them by their label, then when that label says the artist
is done, he or she is just that…finished.
Already poised for the next level of fame by way of the redneck
hard work ethic they apply to everything that they do, the
band has been saying no to label offers for the past year
or two. Recently though, Clint Black and his new Equity Records
came knocking and said the magic words – “100%
artistic control.” Black himself was given the cold
shoulder upon his arrival in Nashville years ago when he wanted
to write and perform his own songs. He’s a man that
understands what it means to have to break down barriers,
and his experiences have made him empathetic to the plight
of the artist. Black can also provide the muscle new artists
need to put them over the top.
Ask
if they fear trying to break out of Texas and win the rest
of the country music audience, and one is met with a unified
resounding, “Hell no!” Knowing that even if they
failed in other markets, they could continue to thrive in
Texas for many years to come with the fan base they have built
through unrelenting touring, Fowler says, “There’s
nothing wrong with being a fuckin’ Jerry Jeff Walker.
He’s knocked down a couple hundred grand every year
for the last twenty years. I’d rather be the Grateful
Dead of country than be the Shania Twain.”
However, always looking ahead, the same business savoir-faire
that makes Fowler understand the parallels of rock and new
country alternative movements makes him fully realize the
value of getting cozy with the established writing and publishing
crowd in Nashville. Admittedly, these road warriors don’t
want to still be touring this hard by the time they are fifty.
Many sacrifices are made now, time away from loved ones, in
the pursuit of this dream. So selling songs to artists like
Sammy Kershaw, who included “Beer, Bait and Ammo”
as a track on his record, and Mark Chesnutt, who included
“The Lord Loves the Drinkin’ Man” on his,
can only help accomplish that goal.
Dreamin’
of a Honky-Tonk Daddy
Fowler is fond of saying that writing country music is no
different than writing rock music, “It’s the same
three chords.” This band of renegades has found that
the songs in both genres are about drinking, sex and hanging
out in bars, and the rebellion it inspires is pretty much
the same. In the end, it seems it just isn’t that far
of a stretch, and these freebirds have wisely applied the
lessons they have learned in the rock and roll world and parlayed
them into a formula for success in country music world.
The bus finally rolls to its resting place and people begin
moving in different directions. It’s 4 a.m. now, and
they all know that in just a few hours they’ll be leaving
again for tonight’s show in San Antonio. A steel guitarist
lies sleeping in his bunk as a fiddle player and a drummer
begin to pack up their belongings. A singer tells a starry-eyed
guitar player that the band will be in touch. After one too
many whiskeys, a photographer lays passed out in a heap on
one of the comfy black leather couches. A worn-out merch man
keeps his seat at the diner-style booth he’s already
very comfortable in, and a bus driver, who has seen it all
before, waits patiently for the rebel crew to get on their
way. A road manager is ready to get home to his wife as a
bass player bolts off the bus, anxious to spend time with
a gorgeous baby girl named Keaton and her mother. And there
is Kevin Fowler. The blue eyes are weary from the days’
activities, and yet the mind is still spinning. He can’t
help it. There is still so much work to be done. He is visibly
torn between going home and stealing the blessed extra minutes
of sleep he could get if he just crawled into his bunk on
the bus. A few miles away though, in a house outside of town,
two more babies lay sleeping and waiting…no doubt dreamin’
of a honky-tonk daddy who dreams in shades of neon lights.
–
Tammy Moore
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