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- Hi Doug, welcome to VENTS! How have you been?
Thank you, and thanks for asking! I’ve been well, aside from a nasty fall last year that sidelined me for a bit. But the hands still work, my voice is being suspiciously cooperative… and of course the audience will be the judge as to the rest of me. I’m mostly focused on gearing up for this new show I’m doing called “Summer of ’72.” The itinerary and ticket listings are linked here.
You’ve described your career as “glorious madness or controlled lunacy.” Looking back over 45 years, what moments best capture that feeling for you?
I suppose the answer would have to be that time and again I’ve found myself in so many wildly divergent situations and bands, that no singular moment, or group of moments, can adequately sum it up. Each holds its own unique brand of relative lunacy and creativity. Sorry to be vague, but I’ll give you some examples if that applies…
For instance: Jumping fromTouch in the early 80’s to Todd Rundgren and Utopia was in many ways akin to switching from joyfully spray-painting graffiti art onto subway cars to suddenly creating Vermeer level chiaroscuro oil paintings. The completely diverse styles of the two bands was a bit of a shocker at first, though apparently, I did eventually catch on, despite being in the band for only a short time.
Of course, the Touch fans were thoroughly confused… and it seems that they remain so as I never seem to do what’s expected of me, nor do I follow instructions particularly well. But I suppose that is why the fans in the UK and Europe know me as a heavier rocker from Touch and Stun Leer, while the US fans apparently recognize me from my work with Todd Rundgren and Edgar Winter. I seem to be eternally, “Oh, right!… that guy!”
Next: Jump ahead a few years later and I found myself being offered the role of “Songster” in the 1987 Masters of The Universe Power Tour.
For the uninitiated, imagine the opera Wagner’s “The Ring,” combined with an Ozzy Osbourne show and a real, live action roller derby… with swords. They needed a live singing narrator to keep the storyline and the riot of action and characters discernable to the audience. Thus became “Songster,” a sort of alien ringmaster.
The back story as to how I ended up in that is that it took three or four telephone hang-ups on my then long-suffering manager who was trying to pitch me on the show, before my eyes were opened to how truly off-the-rails the show really was. When I “got it” from that perspective, I fell in love with the outrageousness of the production and climbed aboard. That decision at one point resulted in 19 consecutive sold-out shows at Radio City Music Hall in NYC, all performed within 10 days. It was also the second highest grossing National US tour of that year, only eclipsed by Billy Joel! Seriously… who could say “no” to that? Looking back, it’s all been nothing if not “different.”
- Summer of ’72 centers on music from the 1960s through the early ’70s—a hugely influential era. Why does that particular stretch of time still feel so alive and meaningful to you now?
“Summer of ‘72” actually links in to my injury last year. I don’t remember the actual incident, but it seems I had fallen from a balcony about 13 feet onto a stone floor. Subsequently I was lying in an ICU where according to the doctors I later learned that I was touch and go between this world and the which-where-why-ever-after. Again, I remember little, but I can clearly recall that I was having wonderful ongoing conversations with this parade of people who would come in and out of the room. Each new person that I met was as fascinating and unique as the last. It was like a party, except that I was hooked up to things that beeped.
I knew I was injured, that was clear to me, and so of course the primary thing on my mind was “what was I going to do once I was released?” At the time, I was in the midst of a run of regional shows entitled “A Nodd2Todd,” comprised of Todd Rundgren material (of course…), and I was anxious to get back to work. I was bouncing ideas off of the zoo of people that were milling about my room, and the one idea that kept re-surfacing amongst the consensus was what was going on in the world, and my life when I was 16… which it so happens was in 1972. According to them, it was very important.
(At this point I should probably mention that afterwards my youngest son, with a combined look of concern and befuddled amusement on his face proceeded to explain to me that in fact there was no one else in the room at any time other than the occasional doctor or nurse, and himself. My new friends did not exist. No one else saw them. From my son’s and the attending physician’s, and nurse’s perspectives, I was happily chatting away… to absolutely no one.
I was awestruck. How dare he ruin a perfectly good story! “Do you also explain how your watch works when people ask you the time?” I asked.)
Regardless, the late 60’s through the early 70’s, for those that either lived it or have only heard about it, was the apogee of an otherworldly revolution in music, art, literature, fashion and social change. It was also when I began actually working professionally as a musician (and convincingly lying about my age so that I could play in the clubs). Being a bass player who could sing was a notable advantage in finding slots within bands at the time. And from there, I more often than not found myself in the most bizarre places… and with the most amazing people. In “Summer of ‘72” I occasionally tell the story of how I eventually found my 16-year-old-self hanging out in the back room at Max’s Kansas City with the likes of Andy Warhol, Alan Ginsberg, Gene Simmons, Cherry Vanilla, The New York Dolls and one of my all-time, teenage, rock-fueled-brain idols, Alice Cooper. There’s more…. actually plenty, but then I’d be giving the show away.
- You’ve been part of so many pivotal projects—from Touch to Utopia to The Edgar Winter Group. How do you decide which chapters of your musical life take center stage in these performances?
I suppose the simple answer is; the process seems to start with the song telling me where to begin amongst the stories that are perhaps relevant.
But to go a bit deeper, your question becomes a bit tougher to answer as no particular project takes the spotlight away from another. Each band, or production, or album, or time-stamp is individually unique in its own right. Each pretty much stands on its own. Some of them big successes, some far from it… but regardless each has its own equal space in the cabinet.
As a side note: I’m simply happy to have had the opportunities to have been there when it all happened. What I contributed, whether useful or not, becomes in my view somewhat secondary to the sum. Though I imagine I must have had some useful function, otherwise they wouldn’t have kept me around.
So back to topic: My ultimate goal is to share that sense of passion, through those first-hand experiences relatably with “the house.”
How I relate all that to the audience in Summer of ‘72 is to find something that is relevant to the house. The fact is, I never work from a script or pre-packaged form of patter. I work from themes, and quite honestly (if not confusingly), I “read the house.” From there, the audience ends up telling me what will resonate with them. And it seems to work as the audiences haven’t steered me wrong yet.
- The setlist mixes iconic songs like “Turn! Turn! Turn!,” “Ruby Tuesday,” and “Free Ride” alongside Todd Rundgren material. What connects those songs for you personally, beyond their place in rock history?
There are certain songs, and I am certain that this is true to every avid listener or player, that can freeze you in your tracks. And for me at least, a song like that will give a serious shake to whatever version of reality you’re focused on at the time. You hear it and it makes you stop whatever you’re doing, and you let it take you where it will (of course, hopefully you’re not performing brain surgery or something).
The songs I’ve selected for Summer of ’72 are a combination of that, but are also relative to either my own experiences, or those of the individual artists who originated them, or simply reflective of what was happening at the time the songs dominated the landscape.
Ultimately, as a band the majority of these songs take us to “that place” where musicians go when they’ve hit that sweet spot amongst each other, and are “locked in.” When you’ve got a group of guys on a stage who manage do that… what we immediately want to do next is to take the audience with us. Honestly, I think that’s essentially our job. Keith Richards (bless him…) describes it far better than I ever could when he calls it “levitating.” It’s magic when the whole place “goes there” with you.
- You’re known as a self-deprecating, endlessly entertaining storyteller, and the anecdotes seem to be as much a part of Summer of ’72 as the music itself. When did you realize that storytelling was a natural extension of your performances?
When people in the audience stopped telling me to “Shut up and play!” Sorry… had to go there. The door was open.
Okay, so I remember many years ago doing a show at the then Patriot Center arena in Fairfax, Virginia (it’s called EagleBank Center now). A massively large venue, I believe it holds nearly 10,000. Anyway, there was a point in the show where whatever madness that was going on on-stage finally hit its finale. The audience did its gracious, appreciative thing, and once they’d calmed down a bit I went on to introduce the next number. I was telling a short story as a set up for the song, when I suddenly noticed that the audience was totally silent. I mean, dead silent. No one was yelling, or coughing, or even mumbling. At least from what I could hear. I looked around thinking… well, I didn’t know… did a purple, alien gorilla in a fetching house frock or something walk onstage behind me? I was awestruck when I realized that they were listening to the story… and the delivery.
It scared the living hell out of me, until our stage director later very kindly explained that it was because “They were interested in what you had to say, you Muppet.” As simple as it sounded, it took me a few shows to wrap my head around it. But apparently it worked, so I kept it in the show. Though I am still all these years later afraid of abusing that audience privilege, so I try to keep the stories to the point, get to the punch-line or whatever within a reasonable amount of time, and count in the next song before I lose them.
- You’ve played legendary stages and historic events—including the first Monsters of Rock Festival in 1980. Do moments like that feel surreal in hindsight, or did the weirdness register even while it was happening?
Well, I most certainly can’t speak in generalities for others at this point, and I also do need to strongly preface that it’s been a while since I have been on any extended major venue tour (and I am also well aware of how much everything has changed), but for me when there was chaos going on… particularly at larger shows, I simply didn’t have the luxury of taking it all in. Whatever caused it might have happened for a wide variety of reasons, because back then you have to remember that we were simply making a lot of what it took to do big shows up as we went along.
A perfect example being the first Monsters of Rock show in Nottingham in 1980. Nothing that large had ever been attempted in the UK before. And in the event of a live show crisis (which in our case at Donnington, was the sound company having an apparent laugh by using us as laboratory guinea pigs to ring out the monitor system as we were the hapless opener), regardless I needed to simply concentrate on the job at hand. Even if it was simply a bar by bar focus throughout the song. Stand and deliver as it were.
Other times, the majority of which actually, I did get to “take it all in.” However, I don’t know if I’d call it surreal. To me, regardless of house size or venue, when things were clicking along it was a bit like “Yes indeed, all is right with the world.” And the distractions became somewhat routine, particularly on a tour where you had been out for a while. You eventually got to the point where you would say things to yourself like, “Oh look, the kids have set fire to the ice cream truck on the hill over there. Well, well, my, my… Damn that guitar solo sounds hot! Craig is absolutely killing it!”
- Performing two anchor shows at The Cutting Room feels significant. What makes that venue the right home base for this run of concerts?
New York City is as close to a home-town as I’ve ever had, having grown up in a wide variety of places. For example, I was supposed to have been born in Brooklyn, but as my mother was visiting her parents when she went into labor with me, I ended up being born in New Jersey. But New York is where I’ve always felt the most at home and believe it or not, the safest. That may sound peculiar, but others, particularly deep-rooted natives I believe will tell you the same.
That combined with the fact that The Cutting Room – NYC is top shelf in terms of its sound, technical specs, and the entire staff are all wickedly seasoned pros who know their crafts. Our audiences there always walk out feeling as though they’ve been someplace special. Finally, the owner is a solid friend and we share a good deal of history.
Eventually perhaps we may take “Summer of ’72,” or what have you to other venues in the cit…, errrrr, wait a moment…. what the hell am I talking about? No! “We dances wit’ dems dat brung us.” As long as they will host Summer of ’72, or whatever else we come up with, in NYC proper it will always be at The Cutting Room.
- Having co-written two Top 40 hits with Todd Rundgren, how do you reflect on that creative partnership today—and what did it teach you about songwriting and collaboration?
Well, that’s where my education only began with Todd. Working with him, each day was a constant exercise in creative honesty and irreverent hilarity. We managed to find the bizarre, the ridiculous, or the fascinating in just about anything. That, and we seemed to like each other’s company. That’s beyond helpful in a studio setting.
But even once I’d moved on from Utopia to The Edgar Winter Group, Todd and I would still get together frequently. He was indulgent enough to help me work on my own early solo efforts, and possibly one of the biggest lessons he taught me was how to be brutally honest with myself. To be fearless in what I wrote, how I played, or what I envisioned for a show. Self-doubt is useful, but too much of it can be crippling and a time waster. He also taught me to never to take myself too seriously. Stop with the me, me, me, jazz. Cut the crap, write the song, write another, then do it again. Listen to others. Try new things. And when you’re tired of all that, go find an audience. Little room, if any for self-pity. There’s too much to do and see. Merciless? I don’t think so. Not in the least.
The word “genius” is too casually thrown around to describe so many artists. Acolytes spew it all over like confetti upon those who, while indeed talented and gifted, and who can certainly produce seriously great work, are not I’m sorry, brilliant. The reason I know this is because I’ve had the privilege of working at one time or another with two actual geniuses, one being Todd Rundgren. That brand of genius changes worlds. If not for everyone, then certainly for those who fall into its orbit. And I’d have to undoubtedly include Edgar Winter into that exclusive clique as well. Come to a show… I’ll tell you all about it!
- Many fans coming to these shows likely lived through this era, while others know the songs secondhand. How do you approach performing classic material in a way that feels vital rather than nostalgic?
Make the song your own. Don’t try to sound like another artist.
You’re leading the audience down a false garden path doing that, as they will be disappointed (if not irritated) when invariably sooner or later you will fall short of the original. That was them… this is you. And authenticity, particularly of late is what an audience wants to experience.
I’ve found, that anytime you cover another artist’s song, when you’re taking the original version apart or studying the songs construction, you should take care to identify the key components other than the lyrics and melody that make the song as a whole identifiable. Find the key licks, or the vocal phrasing, (or hey!.. the cowbell!) that are integral to the song and put them aside for later.
Next, forget all of that and take only the basic melody and chords, and make the song your own. Don’t try to sound like anyone but yourself. As to the parts that you stuffed into the box, once you know the song bring them back out individually and place them back in. Do they fit? Great, inject them into the arrangement. Do they sound unnecessary, or simply nonsensically lame within the context of your own version? Then leave them in the box.
The point is, while covering someone else’s material is something that a player needs to approach with respect, ultimately one needs to make the performance of that song unique to themselves in order to be honest with their audience. An audience can smell a counterfeit a mile away. And particularly nowadays it’s clear they demand emotional factualness. You do you.
When I hear a younger musician say something along the lines of… “I want to be just like Eric Clapton.” I think, “Why? We already have one of those.”
- As Summer of ’72 continues to expand with more tour dates, what do you hope audiences walk away with—beyond great songs and great stories?
I’m uncomfortable with illusions of some grand, life-changing effect one might have on an audience with what we do.
I grew up in a family of actors and musicians. After five generations the rule seemed to have distilled down to “Know your lines. Make your marks. Thank the man for the check.” While that might sound on the surface to be a bit grating and dismissive, I do agree with the deeper sentiment which is to “know your job, and to do it with humility.”
Wherein our job is to take people out of their day to day “normal” (whatever that is nowadays…), hopefully get them to levitate with us (as “Uncle Keef” calls it), and to collectively connect with them on some level that they may have fallen out of touch with. Assume nothing. Because if you really want to connect with your audience, you can’t do it with shallow bravado and self-ennoblements.
If there is a message here in what we are doing, it’s that I believe that people need to remember who they are and what they are capable of… individually and collectively. Life is not happening to you, even if sometimes you feel that it is. You are in fact in charge. You always have been.
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