Thomas O’Keefe - Waiting to Derail: Ryan Adams and Whiskeytown, Alt-Country’s Brilliant Wreck

Copyright 2018 by Thomas OKeefe with Joe Oestreich

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Cover design by Rain Saukas

Cover photo credit: Thomas OKeefe

Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-2493-8

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-2494-5

Printed in the United States of America

For Stephanie and Sophie

Table of Contents

P ROLOGUE

S EATTLE , W ASHINGTON . F EBRUARY 1998

A gaggle of cops stood on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, blocking the door to the bus. I flashed my laminate, told them I was the tour manager, and climbed aboard. It was 4:00 a.m., and the front lounge was packed: the whole band, a few EMTs, another cop or two. And there was Ryan Adams, passed out on the couch, being attended to by one of the technicians.

The EMT bent over Ryan and slapped a blood pressure cuff on him. This woke him up a bit, and he seemed to almost register what was happening. He opened one eye, glanced at the tech and the pressure cuff, and said, Get the fuck off of my bus.

Ryan, dont talk to these guys like that, said Caitlin Cary, the fiddle player. Theyre trying to help you.

Ryans head wobbled like a newborn babys, as if his neck were barely strong enough to carry the weight of everything rolling around up there. Get the fuck off of my bus, he spat out a second time.

The technician spent a few minutes checking Ryans vitals, and Ryan giggled and babbled and insisted that the authorities get the fuck off his bus. Meanwhile, the rest of us told the EMTs what little we knew about the combination of intoxicants Ryan might have taken. Tomorrow we were playing Vancouver, and because we would soon meet the Canadian drug dogs at the border crossing, we had already cleaned the bus of illegal substances. Tonights show had ended just five hours earlier, but that seemed like a week ago.

As the technician unfastened the pressure cuff, he said to us, Hes coming out of it. The worst is over. Then he turned back to Ryan and said, Before we go, I gotta ask you a few questions.

Thats cool, Ryan said.

Ryan, what city are you in right now?

Seattle, he said, slurring the t s right out of the word.

And where are you from?

North Carolina.

Good. Now can you tell me what day of the week it is?

Whoa, whoa, I said. Hold on a minute. Thats not fair. None of us can answer that. Were on tour. Every day is Monday, every day is Friday. I looked at the EMT and shook my head. Next question.

The tech quizzed him a little longer, and although Ryan could barely get the words out, hed aced the test so far. Ryan, the tech said, Whos the president of the United States? This was the big money question. Final jeopardy.

Ryan elbowed himself higher. Its Bill Clinton, he said, and let me tell you something about Bill Clinton. The Monica Lewinsky scandal had broken a few months earlier, and back in those days Ryans politics leaned toward the right. He he he should be in jail .

The technician started putting his supplies back into his gear box Well, Ryan, he said, at least we agree on one thing.

The EMT and I walked off the bus, and we stood down on the blacktop next to the cops, all of us lit up by the police cruisers and the ambulance. I thanked everybody for their help.

Goddamn, son, one of cops said. He was an older guy whod clearly seen his share of criminal mischief in his years on the force. He looked at me and then he turned back toward the bus. I wouldnt trade jobs with you for anything.

P ART

T HE S HERIFF OF W HISKEYTOWN (S PRING 1997F ALL 1997)

C HAPTER

N ine months earlier, in May of 1997, I got the call that would change my life. It was from a guy who introduced himself as Chris Roldan. Along with his partner, Jenni Sperandeo, he ran Jacknife, an indie promotion company based in Austin. Jacknifes core business, Roldan told me, was radio promotion: helping record labels get their bands played on the airwaves. But recently he and Sperandeo had made the move into artist management. Jacknifes first signing was an act from Raleigh, North Carolina, a band called Whiskeytown, fronted by twenty-two-year-old wunderkind Ryan Adams.

Talking to Roldan that day, I was standing in my kitchen, which was also in Raleigh. A year earlier I had moved to North Carolinas capital city from Charlotte, where Id spent a decade in a punk rock band called ANTiSEEN. Wed toured extensively through the United States and Europe, and wed released a bunch of albums, EPs, and singles. I was the bass player, but I also booked the hotel rooms, settled up with the promoters, and made sure everybody showed up on time for sound check. I eventually learned that in the music business, this kind of cat wrangling came with a job title: Tour Manager. After quitting ANTiSEEN and moving to Raleigh, I began to parlay my road experience into a burgeoning career tour-managing other acts. And thatmy tour-managing rsumis what Roldan was calling to talk about. He and Sperandeo were looking for somebody in Raleigh, somebody on the ground, to shepherd Ryan and the band through their next touring cycle.

Whiskeytown had recently signed with Outpost, an imprint of Geffen Records. And theyd just finished recording their major-label debut in Nashville and Los Angeles with producer Jim Scott, known for his work with Tom Petty, Sting, Johnny Cash, and alt-country darlings Wilco. The Whiskeytown record, Strangers Almanac , would be released in July. Buzz was already building thanks to the bands 1996 indie release Faithless Street , prominent showcases at the SXSW and CMJ music festivals, and the ensuing label courtship in which Outpost emerged the lucky suitor. Ryan and Whiskeytown were now on the launchpad. All systems go. All lights green. Roldan was hoping I could tour-manage the blastoff.

Id heard of Whiskeytown, of course. By 1997 everybody even remotely connected to the booming Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill music scene had heard of Whiskeytown. And most everybody had a story about a run-in with Ryan Adams. Lots of those stories started with a line like I swear, that kid whines like an eighth-grade girl or Bastard owes me twenty bucks . But nearly every storyeven when coming from the Triangles most jaded scenesters ended with something to the effect of You gotta admit, hes pretty goddamn good .

At that point Id never seen Ryan on stagenot with Whiskeytown, whod been together since late 1994, and not with Patty Duke Syndrome, the band hed formed back in his hometown of Jacksonville, North Carolina, and then reconstituted after moving west to Raleigh. But I had seen him around town, mostly at 7 Even, a North Carolina State University-area convenience store that was every musicians first choice for beer and cigarettes. Standing in front of the coolers, lit up by the overhead fluorescence, Ryan looked like a South-of-the-Mason-Dixon Paul Westerbergall mussed-up hair and wrinkled clothes. With his big black glasses, he also looked like Austin Powers, and by then a few local musicians had started knocking on Ryan by referring to him as Mike Myerss character. Like me, theyd see him at 7 Even, doing something as mundane as trying to decide between Budweiser and Heineken. One would elbow the other: Get a load of fucking Powers over there.