The Current (January 2012, Vol. 9, No. 1)

Terri Hendrix’ “Cry Till You Laugh –The Part That Ain’t Art”

By Amy Addams

No, this is not Terri Hendrix’ latest album, but a book about her climb through the music scene and how she got to where she is today. It’s full of memoirs and snippets of her life from her first guitar (stolen from her sister) until present day. Hendrix gives us a window into how she started writing songs (her system clearly isn’t for everybody) and who she is when no one is watching. The book is also chock-full of her songs from the entire catalog, which when read, seems a bit like a book of poetry, but even for the more die-hard anti-poetic types, it works on a strange level.

Cry Till You Laugh is funny, sad and many times profound. There are a lot of pictures covering her tours and so many laugh-out-loud moments, but what really grabbed me was the raw truth in her writing. She does not sugar coat her life to make it sound as though she is an angel fallen to earth, but lets us into her ‘real Terri’ with some of the substandard living conditions she has endured, some of the uglier sides of touring and performing as well as her inspirations for many of her songs. Anyone who is already a Hendrix fan should add it to their library without a second thought and if you enjoy reading comedy, poetry or just wants something to fill a quiet Sunday on the couch, Cry Till You Laugh is a great read.  [see:terrihendrix.com]

Walking Woody’s Road @ One World Theater Tickets 

Here’s the event description from the theater’s website:

Here’s a link to a story on “Walking Woody’s Road” from the Austin American Statesman, written by Chad Swiatecki and published Jan. 25, 2012:

LaFave, other Texas songwriters come together to celebrate Woody Guthrie

Like every artist who participated in the project — a veritable who’s who of Americana stars including, among many others, Rodney Crowell, Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, Joe Ely, Steve Earle, Lyle Lovett, Emmylou Harris and John Prine — Hendrix came on board as a longtime fan of Clark’s extraordinary catalog of songs. “Guy Clark is like a dancer with the way he talks and a photographer with the way he writes,” she told writer Brian T. Atkinson in the album’s liner notes. “He’s the epitome of American songwriting.” For her track, Hendrix covers “The Dark,” off of Clark’s 2002 album of the same name. In an interview the Sulphur Springs News-Telegram, Verlon Thompson, Clark’s longtime touring guitarist who played on most of the “This One’s for Him” sessions and also recorded a cover of “All Through Throwing Good Love After Bad,” described Hendrix’s recording of “The Dark” as “one of those breathtaking moments … We all looked around the room at each other and had to choke it back to keep it together.”

Hendrix and Thompson — along with fellow “This One’s for Him” participants Lovett, Crowell, Ely, Camp, Rosie Flores, Terry Allen, Jerry Jeff Walker, Jack Ingram, Shawn Colvin, Kevin Welch, Ray Wylie Hubbard, James McMurtry, Radney Foster, and the Trishas — also performed at the “Wish I Was in Austin: A 70th Birthday Tribute Concert for Guy Clark,” held Nov. 2 at the Long Center for the Performing Arts in Austin. Clark himself closed the show with a set of his own. Proceeds from the concert benefitted the Center for Texas Music History at Texas State University in San Marcos.

Following are links to some of the rave reviews and coverage “This One’s for Him: A Tribute to Guy Clark” has received so far:

This One’s for Guy Clark, Americana’s Craftsman, by Meredith Ochs, NPR Music

“Maybe it’s the lesser known lights that hit home the hardest, artists like Verlon Thompson, Terri Hendrix, and Shawn Camp, going for the surprise factor for extra impact.The chance to perform “All Through Throwing Good Love after Bad,” “The Dark” or “Homeless” gives each one, respectively, a leg up on greatness to be sure.” — Bill Bentley, Bentley’s Bandstand @ The Morton Report, Dec. 15, 2011

Performing Songwriter’s 10 Favorite CDs of 2011

“Not only did co-producers Tamara Saviano and Shawn Camp masterfully match artists to songs, they coaxed forth deliveries that make us understand why these songs still matter.” — Lynne Margolis, American Songwriter, Jan. 9, 2012

“The 21 best Americana (more or less) albums of 2011 … that I heard, at least,” by Richard Skanse, Lava Magazine (The Music Magazine of the Mauli Ola Foundation)

“Real Texas Cookin’,” by Steve Horowitz, PopMatters, Jan. 6, 2012

Rock the Goat

By Terri Hendrix

“The Notorious Namedropper”

The mirror in the guest bathroom of my friend Maggie’s house is unkind. It magnifies pores, laugh lines, and the red branch-like spider veins around my nose. I’d call it sort of a carnival mirror as well since it makes my face — along with certain other body parts —wider than they actually are. It’s definitely not a place in which I like to view my reflection — especially at an ungodly hour in the morning before the last gig of a tour. Just like that mirror suggested, I looked like I felt: Worn out.

I cursed at my reflection in tandem with the name of the concert promoter who’d insisted that, “Yes,” we would be expected to arrive seven hours prior to show time at his venue, and, “Yes,” we would be expected to eat with him and six other guests immediately following our sound check. And why on earth had I agreed to this? Because I couldn’t say “No.” I try too hard. There I said it. I go out of my way to be agreeable with everyone. But this time, my antics teetered on the ridiculous. We’d had a late gig the night prior, and this gig was at least two hours away from Maggie’s house. With city traffic, you might as well double that distance. This meant we’d have to leave even earlier to stick to his schedule requirements.

Even though my contract clearly stated his wishes, I still called the guy in hopes I could buy us a few extra hours so we could all get some much needed shut-eye. But he wouldn’t budge. To make matters worse, he sounded like a real piece of work over the phone, too. I’d been forewarned that he was a notorious name-dropper, but I’d just chalked it up to gossip. Boy was I wrong. He’d answered his phone and promptly greeted me with, “Where’d you play?” Trying to be cordial I answered politely, but before I could utter another word he methodically began dropping the name of every person he knew at the venue and telling me how each of them was a “close personal friend” of his. As the windbag continued to verbally relieve himself, I drew my fist into such a tight ball around my cell phone that my hand cramped.

“I see by your schedule — yes, I’m now looking online — that you played for Jack!” he squealed in delight. “Oh now, he’s a close personal friends of mine.” I rolled my eyes and blurted, “Actually, Jack’s no longer there, but …” “Yeah, yeah, I knew Jack left. The new guy, you know, Bill? Now, he’s really a close personal friend of mine.”

I was beyond frazzled and had neither the heart nor time to tell him that I’d actually worked with a “Bonnie” that was new to the United States by way of County Clare, Ireland, and could by no means be a close personal friend of his since she’d just returned from Africa after fulfilling her duties with the Peace Corp. Of course, I’m making this all up now, but I was tempted to lie to him nonetheless — if only to shut his pie-hole. I didn’t want to work for this guy. Honestly, I just wanted to pack up and have Maggie take me straight to the airport. I was homesick for Texas: For home. My thoughts were interrupted by Maggie shouting up the stairs, “Lloyd’s here. Let’s boogaloo to your gig!” I gave the mirror one last scowl, flipped off the light, and dashed down the stairs to help schlep our gear into Maggie’s car.

Having briefed Maggie and Lloyd on our employer’s infamous reputation for schmoozing and über-odd behavior over the phone, we shared more than a few laughs at Namedropper’s expense. Was it kind? Nope. But it sure made the trip to our gig faster. By the time we pulled up into the drive (at the exact time we were expected), we decided to make a game out of counting how many names he’d drop throughout the afternoon — seeing as we had a lot of hours to kill before the start of our show.

With aching muscles, we slowly began to unload our gear and walk it toward the entry of the venue. In doing so, I made a mental note that where we were to play was actually startling in its beauty. Crisp green hedges outlined a decorative brick walkway with native plants bursting out from underneath. Colorful flowers spilled out of large purple art-deco pots in front of the stone and stucco building. I can’t tell you where it is, or go into greater detail about what the venue looked like, because more than likely you, too, are a close personal friend of his and I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. So I’ll just put it like this: Namedropper is loaded.
I was still taking it all in when the afternoon was violently interrupted with someone screaming, “LLOYD MAINES!” I hadn’t even seen or heard a door open! The next thing I know, what could only be Namedropper Himself was up Lloyd’s grill to the point that even I was embarrassed at the intrusion. I noticed that Maggie was turning purple trying to keep from laughing. I squinted my eyes at her, and slowly wiped my index finger over my throat, signaling that I’d cut her head off if she didn’t zip it. In short, I was mortified.
So many names were dropped between Maggie’s car and the stage, that I lost count before I’d removed a single instrument from of its case. From “A” to “Zappa,” the guy was a “close personal friend” and ready to boast about it. As he strutted about like a peacock, he expected Lloyd to join him in recalling the Wikipedia pages of the icons of country and folk music.

“Lloyd, when did you work with Jerry Jeff? And what instrument did you play? And on what record did you play it? A Mullen steel you say? Oh, I’m in tight with the guys at Mullen.”

Before Lloyd could feasibly answer one question, another round of spittle-laden “Do You Know’s?” was hurled in his face. “Lloyd, do you know Tom Paxton? Judy Collins? Joan Baez?” Sadly, this was soon followed by the “Did You Know’s?” “Now Lloyd, did you know my close personal friends, Johnny Cash? June Carter? Roy Orbison?” And on and on this one-way dialogue twirled like some twisted merry-go-round. All through sound check and straight through dinner, his guests sat bug-eyed and enthralled as Lloyd, though weary, tried to keep up with our host’s endless prattling and inquiries.

As desert was passed around there was actually a lull, yes a lull, in the conversation. At that point Namedropper spotted me across the table, thrust his chin forward, and chirped, “I have every respectable folk record ever recorded. You know? I don’t have your music.” That’s when it hit me. I wasn’t booked at this gig because of my music! I was booked at this gig because of whom I worked with: Lloyd Maines.

Yes, Lloyd’s a legendary musician, and with due cause. Playing music with players of a high caliber costs me money. I keep my overhead low, so I can afford to tour where I want and with whom I want. That said, Lloyd is not a hired gun — he’s been my business partner for more than 15 years. But what Namedropper didn’t know was, this gig was one I had to convince Lloyd to play, because it hadn’t really routed with the rest of our tour. It was out of the way. But here we were, on account of my decision. The irony is, I’m pretty picky about where I play, too. After 20 years of performing, I don’t like to accept gigs where a promoter either doesn’t know what I do, or is booking me for ulterior motives other than my music. So basically, I’d accepted this gig because I’d been lied to. And to make matters worse, we had been deprived of much-needed sleep that day just so numbnuts here could have plenty of extra time to schmooze!

I wanted to thump Namedropper upside the head with my fork, but instead, I simply said, “Pity.” Then I asked, “Coffee?” He leapt up from the table and did a little jig towards the kitchen and his Keurig coffee maker. Within moments, he was launching into the ins and outs of his coffee maker like I was new to civilization. This of course entailed more name throwing, as he rattled off a long list of everybody who was anybody who had ever been treated to cup of coffee from his Keurig. I bit my tongue to keep from telling him that I’d been a close personal friend to Maggie’s Keurig (which was — ahem — bigger) coming up on three years now.

As the hours slowly passed, I can assure you the evening got even weirder. Whatever Namedropper had was catching, as most of his clientele had it, too. During intermission, while I was trying to sell CDs, a blonde that had partaken in plastic surgery to the point that her ears were just about behind her head rattled nonstop to me about the “must-have” song fodder found in such “light reading” as the Holy Bible — the King James version, of course.

“An educated mind that truly understood religion,” she slurred — while swishing chardonnay around the rim of her glass — “would grasp the offensive undertones in your music. I found your, what was it? Oh yeah, ‘Spiritual Kind’ song hurtful.” Luckily, before I could answer, a mousy redhead with Buddy Holly glasses interrupted us. Within minutes, both were leaning over my merchandise table batting back and forth the names of various people they were “close personal friends” with that were “affiliated with the arts” in their community. I sat in the middle of them, sighed, and plopped my chin on my hands. No one was buying CDs, I felt like a flop at this shindig, and across the room poor Maggie was leaning against a banister, cornered by one-uppers, with her entire mouth submerged in a beer. She looked sleepy. Like she was ready to “boogaloo.” Only we couldn’t. We still had one more set to do.

From a distance, a bell rang signaling that intermission was over, and I made my way to the stage. While we readied our gear for our second set, Namedropper held court with the audience. Within a few minutes, he’d wound himself up into a fervor over the afternoon he’d spent with “Lloyd Maines!” He went on to reminisce about all the close personal friends they had in common. Finally, with Lloyd and myself looking on slack-jawed, Namedropper drew his speech to a shuddering conclusion. He took a deep breath, wiped a tear from his eye, humbly turned toward the stage, unrolled his arm with dramatic flair, and with an elongated bellow hollered, “Please … welcome, once again … the legendary … LLO-O-O-O-YD MAINES! And … and … and …”

“I’m Terri Hendrix,” I gulped into the microphone, saving him. He looked annoyed, then relieved, and promptly wheeled around and took his seat. Of all the names dropped that day, the Notorious Namedropper had forgotten mine.

So here it is, the official last day of 2011, and I’ve long since returned to Texas. But I’m still thinking about that hellish day I spent with folks you couldn’t pay me — no matter how much you offered — to entertain for again.

Some moments in life aren’t worth revisiting, but I learned a lot from that experience. Late that evening upon returning to Maggie’s house, before going to bed, I lingered in the guest bathroom and took one more look at my reflection. After that day, my face rivaled Mr. Ed’s, the talking palomino horse in the antiquated sitcom (we were close personal friends). Getting older doesn’t bug me. Overall, I’m pretty comfortable in my own skin. What troubled me was not so much my appearance, but the fact that the woman I thought was there, underneath the face, had vanished. In its place was a stranger. A stranger without a legitimate voice — in her own life. Life was all about chapters. And for me to turn the page, I was gonna have to build a backbone, learn to say the word “No,” and stick to my decisions. No more wishy-washy. I’d taken that blasted gig, against Lloyd’s better judgment, because the Notorious Namedropper saddled with my booking agency had talked a good game. I’d taken the bait, and ended belly up with a hook in my mouth. Consequently, had my ego taken a hit? Yes. And by continuing to put myself out there, would it take a hit in the future? Most certainly.

Soon after I got home from that trip, I heeded my newfound resolution, and summoned the courage to say “No” to my booking agency. Then I removed my name from their roster. Woody Allen said, “80-percent of success is just showing up.” This past year and on into 2012, I’ve been working on changing it to “80-percent of success is just showing up — at the right place, for the right reason, and for the right people.”

LoneStarMusic.com

“Austin favorite Hendrix turned in a powerful opening set, with Lloyd Maines accompanying her on guitar, mandolin and steel.Hendrix was especially appealing on The Spiritual Kind, A Thousand Times and a spoken-word offering If I Had a Daughter, compositions that showed off her versatility, instrumental skill and strong, emotional vocals.”

You can read the full review, written by Shirley Jinkins and published Dec. 30, 2011, here:

As always, Fort Worth’s Bass Hall sells out for Robert Earl Keen, who turns in another outstanding performance

Terri Hendrix Notably Texan Feature Interview

Here’s the program description on KETR’s Notably Texan page:

Matt Meinke is joined by a unique voice in Texas music, singer/songwriter Terri Hendrix. Terri calls in from San Marcos to talk about her album “Cry Till You Laugh,” and the companion book “The Part That Ain’t Art.”

Terri is one of our favorite guests on the show, bringing her unique sense of humor, her wonderful stories, and her inspirational take on life. Several examples of Terri’s music are also highlighted in this hour-long Feature Interview. Originally aired January 19, 2012.

Notably Texan is heard weeknights at 6, and Saturdays at 7 on 88.9 KETR, highlighting all the music of Texas, sharing Texas Tidbits and unusual news from around the state, and even a little Texas history.

San Marcos. For years Terri Hendrix’s Goat Notes blog has given the musician’s fans insight into Hendrix’s reflections on the music industry and life in general:  musings both funny and poignant. It’s also proved that the musician has some real writing chops.

And now, those stories and more have made it into one cohesive unit: Hendrix’s first book “Cry Til You Laugh: The Part that Ain’t Art.”

Hendrix will host a signing for the book, currently in its second printing, from 1 t o 4 p.m. Saturday at Paper Bear in downtown San Marcos. The signing also includes a meet and greet with the author and musician.

“We’d do anything for Terri. She’s got such a strong following in this area. It’s a special event for us,” Paper Bear owner Carol Powers said. “I read the book and loved it. It made me laugh, the stories were all so great.”

Powers said that Hendrix comes into the store often, and employees are quick to put on her music for her when she walks in.

“Cry Til You Laugh,” a companion piece to Hendrix’s newest album, is a collection of essays that share funny tales from the road and offer advice on how to independently release music — something Hendrix has become well known for.

The folk singer/songwriter created her own label, Wilory Records, becoming a pioneer in a trend of independent musicianship and being one of the few artists who has owned all of her own master recordings. Hendrix lives by the motto “own your own universe,” and shares such insights in the book.

“People think these days you can grow a career like a Chia Pet, that it’s instant,” Hendrix said. “They forget that it’s about relationships and hard work. At some point, you’re going to have to work hard. And that’s what this book addresses: How to work hard, sustain yourself making music and how to not get ripped off.”

One chapter, “Einstein’s Brain,”  directly addresses Hendrix’s bout with epilepsy for most of her life.

My brain broke when I was about 7 years old, and as I get older, it breaks more often,” she writes.

But much of the book is as fun and happy-go-lucky as Hendrix is on stage. One hilarious chapter, “Take Me Places,” tells the story of Hendrix and bandmate Lloyd Maines surviving an adventure-filled night at a “hoity-toity” bed and breakfast while on tour. Hendrix’s minute-by-minute  recapturing of their misfortunes with the snotty house host is hilarious and, for those in town who know her, 100 percent Hendrix.

And as the last chapter addresses, Hendrix is far from hanging up her guitar — or her pen.

“I want there to be more to my life than just mere existence,” she writes in one of the essays featured in her new book, “Cry Till You Laugh.” “No matter what I do, where I go, or whatever trials this year might have in store for me, I want to remember my ability to laugh … I want joy. And hope. And inspiration. And above all, a sense of purpose.”

Cry Till You Laugh
4 Stars
Wilory

Cracker (band) has a song featuring the line: “What the world needs now is anoth- er folk singer/like I need a hole in my head.” I must reluctantly agree, but that’s because the lads in Cracker hadn’t yet heard Texas singer/songster Terri Hendrix (no relation to Jimi). Unlike many young ladies with an acoustic guitar, Hendrix does not mine the usual vein of young adult angst. Stylistically, imagine if Lucinda Williams had a precocious little sister, or if Bonnie Raitt had graduated college (in TX, of course) eight years ago, and you have the nub of my gist. Hendrix kicks off the disc with the solo vocal and harmonica setting of two Dorothy Parker poems — the gal’s got spunk and smarts, country blues at the Algonquin Round Table. While most of the album continues in her L. Williams-esque amalgamation of folk, country, blues, and rock of her previous albums, Cry Till You Laugh introduces a new wrinkle. On a couple of tracks Hendrix embraces New Orleans-style jazz, singing with Crescent City joie de vive and even using her voice wordlessly in tandem with the instruments. Not that Squirrel Nut Zippers or Madeleine Peyroux will lose any sleep, but by sheer chutzpah and animated charm Hendrix pulls it off. On the winners-never-quit “Einstein’s Brain,” she covertly/slyly refers to her 20-year battle with epilepsy. Hendrix has released over a dozen albums on her own label, and she’s way better than a hole in nearly anyone’s head. Listen to her.

Terri Hendrix
Cry Till You Laugh
Four Stars

As a singer-songwriter, Terri Hendrix has suffered through more than her share of mislabeling. That’s partly because she’s so versatile; she can fit into — or break — just about any mold.

In this case, she set out to make a jazz album, but claims to have gotten derailed. If that’s the case, she should do so more often. Her supple voice is absolutely sublime on “Automatic,” and the torchy, bluesy “Sometimes,” proves she could go toe-to-toe with any jazz singer on the planet. Her effortless scatting around the horns on the swingin’ Ike Eichenberg tune, “You Belong in New Orleans” is just wickedly wonderful. She makes you feel the chill of lovers divided in “Berlin Wall,” and the pain of suffering the affliction of epilepsy in “Einstein’s Brain.”

Hearing her indulge her musical genius, abetted by producer/playing partner Lloyd Maines and one of the best bands in Austin (or anywhere) is pure joy. — Lynne Margolis

Buy if you like: Diana Krall, Cassandra Wilson

Source Article: Let’s Go New Hampshire

Chris Spector
Midwest Record
www.midwestrecord.com
Volume 33/Number 242