Album of the Week
I'm fortunate enough to have a private recording of a show the late Chris Gaffney performed at the Cinema Bar in Culver City, California, back in March 2003. My buddy Mike Stinson and I went to see that gig, and we can both testify that it was one of the best damn things we've ever seen in our lives. Gaff was in top form that night, and he laid down everything he did -- from barroom weepers to straight-up soul -- with guts and panache. If you missed him, it's a pity. He was the goods.
Gaffney never got his due. Every town probably has a musician like him: a singer and writer whose skills eclipse those of virtually anyone around, but whose profile never elevates beyond the local landscape. For years, he dazzled audiences in Southern California's saloons and beer joints -- mainly those in Orange County and the South Bay, but he never seemed truly comfortable in L.A.'s clubs. To many he was probably best known as the accordionist, guitarist, and aide de camp in Dave Alvin's band the Guilty Men. Though he made several estimable albums with his group the Cold Hard Facts and in his own name, it wasn't until near the end of his life, when he joined forces with the Paladins' Dave Gonzales in the Hacienda Brothers, that Chris Gaffney began to enjoy anything like the rep he deserved.
As a country vocalist, Gaffney aspired to and sometimes touched George Jones' greatness; he was also a deep soul singer of exceptional power. It wasn't unusual to see a set in which he performed both Johnny Paycheck's "Apartment #9" and the Intruders' "Cowboys to Girls" and knock both of them out of the park. He played his originals, which drew on such sources, with the same potency. His was an all-American talent.
His death from liver cancer in April 2008 shook Alvin hard. They were brothers under the skin; their songwriting, which took in the bitter joys and grim challenges of a certain breed of SoCal fringe dweller, was uncannily similar. Gaffney's sudden exit galvanized Alvin, who mounted a series of September 2008 benefit concerts, the Dog and Pony Show, which benefited Gaffney's survivors and other Southern California musicians then battling cancer (including Duane Jarvis, who passed away this spring). He had planned Man of Somebody's Dreams as a benefit for Gaffney as well. It stands instead as a worthy homage to a vastly underestimated talent.
The 18 tunes on the album -- eight of which were produced by Alvin himself -- offer a deep look at the many things Gaffney did so well. Here one finds all the distinctive elements of the his personal style -- honky-tonk, R&B and a deep vein of Tex-Mex -- ardently interpreted by admirers and friends. Several of the tracks feature longtime collaborators like guitarist Danny Ott and keyboardist Wyman Reese; Alvin sits in on several cuts, and contributes his own affecting version of "Artesia." The Haciendas' Gonzales' offers a world-weary "Tired of Being Me."
Gaffney's tart humor is heard best on Peter Case's cover of the working musician's anthem "Six Nights a Week," Joe Ely's capering "Lift Your Leg," and James McMurtry's pugnacious "Fight (Tonight's the Night)." His great storytelling gifts are manifest in Los Lobos' rendition of the title track, Tom Russell's "If Daddy Don't Sing Danny Boy" (a tip of the hat to Gaff's Golden Gloves days), Calexico's desert-haunted "Frank's Tavern," and (drawn from the Texas Tornados' 4 Aces album) the late Freddy Fender's chilling vocal to L.A.'s strife-torn housing projects, "The Gardens." Jim Lauderdale and Robbie Fulks pour the country neat on "Glasshouse" and "King of the Blues," respectively.
Other hands as diverse as Boz Scaggs and John Doe also deliver strong contributions, but the best is saved for last. Dan Penn, producer of the Hacienda Brothers' three superb studio albums, weighs in with the penultimate track, a version of "I'm So Proud" that again demonstrates why Penn is considered among the greatest of all white soul singers.
The album ends with Gaffney, recorded near the end of his life when he was in shaky yet powerfully affecting voice, essaying his friend Stanley Wykoff's "Guitars of My Dead Friends." The darkly funny song conjures both Gaffney's dry, wised-up humor and the rich poignancy of his own best material. You laugh sometimes as you listen to it, and at the same time you hurt. Hearing it, I found myself missing Gaffney, desperately, all over again.
