The opening track of the Gamblin’ Christmas album “Alaska” earned its way onto my list of favorite discoveries of last year – “Blue Lights” a piece of Americana that is anthemic, in the way James McMurtry or Joe Ely can drawl and then fire a song into your consciousness.
Make no mistake, the magic possessed by Patrick Flaherty and Kurt Franke – the duo that are Gamblin’ Christmas – is in their harmonies; Cutting, beautiful, unique moments that blend Flaherty’s throaty Texas-influenced foghorn with Franke’s upper-register and distant siren. The two are a little more than a year into a musical reconnection that followed each getting married, the addition of two kids for Patrick and a year-long stint for Kurt in Austin, Texas. But it makes sense for them to be play music together, if for no better reason better than damn good harmonies.
Gamblin’ Christmas brings their Americana/folk/alt-country sound to Bear’s Place in Bloomington on September 4.
Ball State grads, both now living in Indianapolis, are about to commence work on a follow-up to the 2007 release “Alaska”, a minimalist-yet-powerful effort, showcasing their voices above Patrick’s strident acoustic guitar playing and Kurt’s nimble bass guitar.
“We have seven or eight new songs that haven’t been played live or recorded, and another 12 or 13 that we do play that also aren’t recorded,” Flaherty revealed. “We are going to get ready to record another album and have been playing the songs out live. The energy is there.”
Kurt, who has a degree in Music Engineering, adds they are looking for something even more organic this time.
“Interlochen (in Michigan, where they recorded “Alaska”) was amazing, but I want to capture the sound of us in a room where we are very comfortable, rather than a studio,” said Franke. “Its really a struggle balancing a folk approach to performance with classical training in theory and recording, but it is exactly that which keeps me interested”.
The folk approach stems from a mammoth multi-record album of songs they both listened to while in college.
“We both sort of started to take an interest into the ‘Harry Smith Folk Anthology’,” Flaherty said. “It is a collection made in the 1950’s, by someone going all over the country, with a really basic recorder, catching people singing, before they died. Really hardcore folk.”
“When you first listen to the album, it is sort of disorienting, because it is so raw. That kind of music resonated with us.”
It led to playing some Muncie gigs and open mic nights. Sharing a house after college, beginning in 2004, their combined skills and musical strengths began to blossom.
“We were renting a house on Central Avenue and lived together for a year and a half,” Flaherty says. “That it was a time that was amazingly productive, “ Flaherty remembers. “We’d practice and record.”
Eventually, Flaherty got married and moved out, and Kurt and his fiancé (now wife) moved to Austin in late 2006, bringing and hiatus to their partnership.
“My wife and I were expecting a child and we didn’t really want to leave the safety net of family,” Flaherty said. “The plan was for all of us to go down there, and not necessarily relocate. Just to see Austin. It was sort of this mecca. Townes Van Zandt lore. Then when he came back last year, we picked back up again.”
And picking back up meant relearning old songs, writing new songs, and finding that vocal harmonies were still intact.
“I think when the Silver Dollar Family Band (a former four-piece band were both in) was whittled down to Gamblin’ Christmas, we started to realize that our voices sounded really good together.” Franke said. “It has taken a long time to develop the harmonies though, and it was about the time we recorded “Alaska” that it finally all sort of fell into place.
“I think we are worlds beyond that in terms of singing, plus Pat has started to sing harmonies on my songs, which is a huge addition to the sound.”
Steadfast in pushing their own writing and music, their live performance at a recent Sunday night at Melody Inn appearance still mixed in a couple public domain-type covers and one Simon and Garfunkel song (the brilliantly chosen “Duncan”). At that show,. Flaherty, pounding the chords out on his acoustic guitar, frequently grounded his feet twice shoulder-width apart, and bounced his back foot as he sang, sounding equal parts McMurtry, Robert Earl Keen with a bit of Gordon Lightfoot. Kurt leaned in and nudged the songs to a higher place with his high and lonesome harmonies.
“We want to have that vocal chemistry,” Patrick says “The new songs are more mature. More than just relationship gone wrong. More about life. More complicated, with more layers.
“But it’s like the guy who asked Neil Young if he had written the same song at least a 1,000 times. Well, maybe,” Flaherty says. “It’s not like there are a whole new system of rules.”
“I feel like every new song we write keeps getting better and better,” Franke says. “Knowing that the longer we stick with it, the more fun it is, the better it sounds, and hopefully people will feel as strongly about it as we do.”
artist interviews
BoDeans Try to Recover Lost Opportunity
There’s a moment, early in every show, when the BoDeans connect with the crowd. It might be during the slow chorus of “You Don’t Get Much.” Or the refrain, “I might never, no never let go – whoa-oh” from “Still the Night.” But sometime during the first few minutes of every BoDeans show I’ve been to, fans will start to sing loudly. And that’s when I know the rest of the night is going to be good.
The BoDeans – the band that made Waukesha, Wis., famous – are songwriters Kurt Neumann and Sammy Llanas. Always known for performing a soul-stirring rock and roll show, they had a fluke hit song (“Closer to Free”) in 1995 before being derailed by a lawsuit in the middle of what would be their only real shot at bigger things. Still trying to make up for lost opportunity, they were back in Indy for a show at the Vogue June 12.
“We have played a lot of shows all these years at the Vogue. And always had a lot of just crazy, crazy packed houses full of people – always had a good time,” Neumann, on the phone from Austin, Texas, says when asked about Indianapolis. “And I think of [drummer] Kenny [Aronoff], because he played a lot of shows with us and he is from there.”
Out from under struggles against management and record companies, Neumann says they have been making an effort to release more music and push forward. The band has become a part of the eclectic Austin music community after spending 30 years in Waukesha. Through the move and all the legal tumult, the band has never stopped performing, but it has been more difficult to find the time and resources to record albums.
“We spent about eight years where management kind of sat and didn’t do much. We went through a big fiasco around 2004,” Nuemann remembers. “We had been dropped by Warner around 1998. My perspective was, ‘Let’s go get another label.’ But the management kind of went on hiatus and we could never get them to work again, though we were going into the studio to make demos because we kept hearing they weren’t good enough.
“It got to a point I finally said to Sam that we were going to have to take things in our own hands. We knew there was going to be big litigation, but we had to go through it to break free and start releasing stuff again.”
The band’s first album, Love & Hope & Sex & Dreams, was recently re-released. The re-mastered version with bonus tracks helps to put the band’s legacy in perspective.
“The record had always had a lot of warmth and not many people heard it on vinyl because they were buying CDs by then. I just wanted to take another shot at it,” Neumann says.
T-Bone Burnett, mostly unknown at the time, produced the album, long before he became one of the top-shelf producers in rock music.
“I think he likes us because of the authenticity of sound. We also seem to have a common sense of humor,” Neumann says. “There are a handful of people out there who go up on stage and sing songs. And it’s not about a bunch of frills or not about image at all. The BoDeans have been kind of an imageless band – by choice really. We just want it to be about the music. We are not necessarily going to bring a lot of attention to him.”
The re-release is paired with a concert video, recorded in 1985 at the legendary First Avenue in Minneapolis just weeks before the band signed to Slash records.
“These people contacted us, and had found a bunch of footage down in the basement of First Avenue from a concert we had done in 1985,” he says. “It was right around that time we were talking to the labels and talking about hooking up with T-Bone.”
While the extended hiatus in the late ’90s prevented some projects from being realized, since 2002, the band has released a live album, two studio albums and a live acoustic record through their Web site. The album, Still, released in 2008, reunited the band with Burnett.
“I think we will be remembered for our singing and harmonies and the sound we created together. It was one of the things that defined us and when you heard it you knew it was us,” Nuemann says. “And the live shows were also important, because of the energy we tried to create. So that would be a great thing to be remembered for too.”
Rock and Roll Wednesday Night Communion with Jethro Easyfields
New Easyfields album ‘Elixir’ recorded with full band
originally published in NUVO Newsweekly
On the eve of a monumental snowstorm in late January, Indianapolis singer-songwriter Jethro Easyfields and I are sitting at Red Key Tavern, talking for over two hours about his new album and where a guy like him finds success. A knit cap atop his unshaven face and wearing a black Rolling Stones T-shirt and winter coat, he looks like a guy who would have a PBR in front of him. Instead, he’s drinking a Heineken.
Easyfields is a man brimming with ideas, full of stories and naturally inquisitive. He muses about the expanded opportunities (via the Web) and reduced possibilities (with an economic recession and consolidated record industry) for a musician at this historical moment.
Easyfields’ new album Elixir is a full-on, full-band, hard-strumming acoustic guitar-led piece of Americana music that was recorded in five sessions over six months with his backing band, the Arrowheads. It rings of influences ranging from The Band to Tom Petty to Steve Miller. And it’s a bit of an odd record, due mostly to the uniqueness that is Jethro Easyfields. There’s a decided looseness to the album, and he says that’s the way he wanted it.
“I always go in with sounds in my head,” Easyfields says. “I wanted the recording to be live and be real. Tell me if I am singing off key. Maybe I can fix it later, or maybe I don’t want to fix it.
“If there’s a few mistakes on it, or it’s a little wobbly here, we’re not perfect people,” he says of the cuts that made the new record. “It’s not overly produced. We made it in my living room, with Pro tools and a big-ass mixer. Scott Kern, who plays guitar on the album, is the co-pilot and the guy who has the ears. He had headphones on saying, ‘Keep going. You got it.'”
In prison for no damn reason
Easyfields’ teetering voice sings of Indianapolis and Indiana on a number of songs from Elixir. In his late 30s, Easyfields is a Northern Indiana country boy living in the city, with experiences garnered through years spent banging his guitar around streets and in clubs. Before Indianapolis, it was Fort Wayne, New Orleans and Phoenix.
“My interest grew with music and I had played and done what I thought I could in Fort Wayne. So I was like, ‘Where do I go? Memphis? New Orleans?’ So I went directly to New Orleans. I talked to someone who said, ‘You gotta go down there – you have the fever or something,'” he remembers. “I was there for six or seven years, really just going down to make sure the blues I knew was real. I mean, you have to go through some stuff – your dog has to die, you have to get robbed.”
In New Orleans, he did manage to have an “Alice’s Restaurant” moment.
“I was put in prison for a couple days for obstructing a sidewalk for no damn reason,” he recalls. “I was not even with my guitar. I was trying to help a friend … and we were up against a wall. And we were arrested. Put in a chain gang with murderers. For obstructing a sidewalk. Had to go to court, pay $120 or stay seven days.
“That kind of changed my mind for a second. ‘Should I be here?’ It made the skin a little thicker,” he admits. “I was there for a reason.”
Po Boy Chronicles
Easyfields’ two Web-only albums, Po Boy Chronicles and Retrospective, are archived at http://www.musicalfamilytree.org/band/jethro_easyfields (which offers unlimited, free mp3 storage to musicians currently or historically based in Indiana). Some of the 51 tunes on those two albums eventually ended up on the new CD. He recorded Po Boy, the longer of the two albums, after returning from a visit to New Orleans (which he made after he had moved to Indianapolis).
“After I went to New Orleans again, I came back after Katrina, and wrote 30 songs. And I can’t really put out a 30-song album. Who’s gonna buy that? So I put it up on the Web site, and gave it away for free because there is some topical stuff there. Some people may think it is interesting, come to a show and now I have a new album – boom!” he says, talking about how to reach new audiences. “The more you do, the more people will hear it. You gotta get your name out there.”
But there was a time when Easyfields wasn’t comfortable with putting everything out there.
“I’m trying to explain the trials and tribulations of everything around. Sometimes, it gets personal. You just try to find someone to appreciate it,” Easyfields says. “I sang all these songs about my life and then I’d go home and cry. I didn’t care if there were five or 150 people there. I would think I gave out too much information. It is kind of like therapy in reverse.”
Snowy open mic night
It’s another Wednesday night, and Easyfields is going to play his music for a tribe of friends at the open mic night he hosts at the Northside bar and music venue Locals Only. This tribe of mostly local musicians has been gathering just about every week for nearly five years. Despite the rotten weather following that once-impending snowstorm (I went to see Easyfields a few days after we chatted at the Red Key), the crowd continues to straggle in. By the time 8:45 p.m. comes around, a crew of 20 or so has filtered into the bar, and the number will expand to not quite twice that figure over the next couple of hours.
“I don’t go to church anymore,” Easyfields admits. “But everyone needs their own church. Sometimes that stage is like an altar. Performers have to get up there to breathe and muscle through what they believe in.”
With a long-sleeved orange shirt covered by a vest that would make Petty proud, and another knit cap, Easyfields carries his guitar case to the stage to get the music rolling. He’s a one-man gang tonight, turning on stage lights, running sound, making sure the visiting musicians can find electricity for their amps and moving vocal mics to the right place.
But before he plays roadie and MC to other hopefuls, Easyfields is going to play a few songs himself. Taking his spot on a tan padded stool, he wastes little time getting to his music. Spending the first 30 minutes of the evening on stage, he runs through six songs, including “Rabbit Foot,” one of the songs on the new record. He also does “Cult Status,” his ode to B movies, and “Man on the Moon,” a song among the 30 recorded and put online following one of his trips to New Orleans.
After six songs, Easyfields is done, and for the next several hours, performers, both solo and band, take the stage. None is able to match the confidence, the songwriting or the passion that Jethro Easyfields showed.
OLD CROW MEDICINE SHOW HITS INDIANAPOLIS WITH NEW ALBUM, CLASSIC SOUNDS
With Tennessee Pusher, left-of-center bluegrass-slash-rock band Old Crow Medicine Show has a new album iconic and idiosyncratic enough to be both mainstream and misunderstood. If justice were to prevail, this gem of a record would be in line to earn a Country Album of the Year award. But it won’t and you get the feeling Old Crow’s Ketch Secor doesn’t care.
“When I listen to country radio, I listen to it because I like to know what we are up against and who is setting the trends we are here to buck,” says Secor, the chief songwriter and frontman for a band that doesn’t seem to give a crap about pomp or glitz. As Secor talks, it’s evident he wants real, tangible, greasy, smoky, oozing vitality in his music, whether out of the five band members he tours with, or from speakers that play the music of others.
“I believe in the power of music – to console, comfort, heal and to bring joy.” Says Secor, on the phone from Nashville as the band gears up for a tour that will take it across the United States again and then to Australia for the first time. The band hits Indy for a show at the Vogue January 31, for the fourth stop of the tour
The record debuted at #7 on the Billboard Country Music album charts with scarcely any mainstream radio help.
And here’s why it is a great album: It is full of hook-laden, embraceable harmonies and genuine rock and roll attitude from a bunch of guys who have cloaked it all in classic country instrumentation. Unique yet familiar. An oddly compelling record that reveals itself with multiple listens, as great albums do. Well-crafted and inspirational songs about mortality (“Evening Sun”, “Next Go ‘Round”) mixed with boozy party songs (“Alabama High-Test” – an ode to moonshine, and “Humdinger” – a Crow retro-sounding cut about a cop-free party).
There are also distinct reminders of influences that blow through their music. Listen closely and hear moments that echo The Beatles, Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Kristofferson, Springsteen, Skynyrd, and Neil Young.
Playing music together since 1998, Old Crow Medicine Show was started by Harrisonburg, Virginia junior high buddies Secor and Critter Fuqua. They went to New York state, met friends Willie Watson and Ben Gould, and recorded a record (1998’s Trans:mission) in Critter’s bedroom, so they would have something to sell when they went on the road. Since then, the current lineup of Secor, Fuqua, Watson, traveled hard – crisscrossing the country, playing thousands of shows.
“People are going to get a high energy, pulse-racing, foot-stomping show,” Secor says of the band’s concert. “Sometimes it feels like a little bit of a camp meeting, like a little proselytizing is going on, in a snake handling, strychnine drinking way. Though I’m not saying were are going to drink strychnine on stage, and I don’t want to encourage anyone else to either. But if you are seeing us for the first time, I do hope you have tomorrow off from work.”
Secor, intelligent and forthcoming in an interview, is strident about his quest to carry American music forward.
“Regionality in music is one of the most important factors we have today,” he says, as I hear a dog bark in the Nashville background. “I like a sense of place in music. I really like artists who come from somewhere. Listen to John Cougar and you know the guy’s from the Hoosier state. There’s a backdrop to all the language in his songs. There is a rusty truck idling outside of a Quik Mart. I know where that is.”
There is plenty of unique landscape in the “Tennessee Pusher” album. The harmonies are raggedly perfect. The fiddle playing screams like a rock and roll guitar. The banjos and harmonicas and stand up bass ring familiar. It is deep-rooted American music, blasted into 2009.
Produced by Don Was (best known for helping resurrect the career of Bonnie Raitt, crafting her 1990 “Nick of Time” Grammy winning album), the band also enlisted legendary drummer Jim Keltner for six of the 12 tracks and Tom Petty keyboardist Benmont Tench on four.
“The album is a progression more than a departure from our earlier albums,” Secor says. “It is a little more accessible. That is because of Don.”
Secor seems to relish the band’s place in the continuum of American music, no matter what their too-soon-to-tell legacy ends up being.
“I am honored to be a part of the work that has gone on in the past to get us to the present,” he adds. “I like to think Old Crow and Barrack and the dreamers, thinkers and tinkerers are all part of a new paradigm.”
(also read at nuvo.net – Indianapolis’s Alternative Newsweekly)
Todd Snider – Welcome to the Greasy Tent Revival
Profile
Todd Snider – by Rob Nichols
If it wasn’t so true, Todd Snider would star in the movie.
The story of a kid who hitchhikes from the great northwest to Texas, is befriended by local music legends, learns to play guitar, and heads off on his own to conquer America.
But close the curtain and turn on the lights. There is no movie tonight.
Instead, Todd Snider will deliver the real thing. The lost art of living, sweating, screaming, testifying, American rock and roll resurrected.
Snider, with his band the Nervous Wrecks, brings his roadshow into Fort Wayne for a concert at Piere’s on Friday, June 26.
After some success in 1994 with “Talkin’ Seattle Grunge Rock Blues”, a minor hit from his first album “Songs for the Daily Planet”, Todd and the band have toured nearly continuously since. His writing has continued to be some of the best and most honest music of any genre. The new album, “Viva Satellite”, rocks more than either of his two previous records, while still maintaining a social concieus worthy of a man who has a singer/songwriter background of Snider’s.
“Viva Satellite is decidedly more rock (than past efforts),” Snider told Rolling Stone this month.”But I don’t think it abandons our Jerry Jeff Walker/Joe Ely side, which is where we kind of come from.”
On stage iswhere the album, not to mention Todd, comes to life. Even from the first listen, album sounded like it would translate well live. It does.
But Todd Snider could probably make you dance to lyrics taken from a Betty Crocker Cookbook. And he would probably put a Chuck Berry riff to it to help it along, no doubt.
Fans who are seeing Todd for the first time when he hits town Fridaywon’t see a man and a band looking to tell you their troubles. As Todd points out in his live show, “we didn’t come hear tonight to stare at the floor and tell you how everything sucks.”
“If really feel we’ve gotten to the point where we’re the best band you’re going to see,” Todd said in an interview last week in the El PasoTimes, while the band was on a swing through the state that provided musical wings for the Beaverton, Oregon native. Snider moved to Austin with his brother Mike when Todd was 18. He lived there until heading to Atlanta in the late 1980’s before landing in Memphis.
“I think we are highly underrated'” he continued. “We are a good time rock and roll band, and you don’t see that kind of thing anymore.”
But the phrase is too simple for these guys. “Good time rock band” almost sounds like a description for a bunch of guys who go out and play Rolling Stones and Lynyrd Skynyrd covers.
Which is what Todd and the Wrecks can do. They aren’t afraid to hit the stage blasting with “Long Haired Country Boy”, or “I’m Bad. I’m Nationwide”, or even the hidden track from the new CD, “I’m a Nervous Wreck”. If it rocks, it works.
The band just finished an month-long stint as the opener for blues kid Kenny Wayne Shepherd. From most accounts, the KWS fans were won over by the Snider’s enthusiasm and straight ahead Tom Petty-ish rock and roll that hit them for 50 minutes each night before their hero took the stage. An unusual bill, but one that undoubtedly won Snider some new fans, since he has yet to hit the jackpot in the music business by means of a big radio hit.
Besides “Talkin’ Seattle”, he earned some airplay with “Alright Guy” from the first album, and also with the second record’s (1996’s Step Right Up) first single “I Believe”, a bold statement of beliefs ala John Lennon chained to a CCR backbeat. The first single from the new album, a restrained screamer called “I Am Too” stalled after reaching the top 30 on the Adult Album charts.
Still a long road traveled for a kid who went to Texas searching for a little direction in his life.
After joining his brother Mike in Austin in 1984, Todd started playing solo gigs and open mike nights in the area, eventually hooking up with singer/songwriter Kent Finlay, who befriended Todd and let him move into his house. Todd stayed three years, learning to “make up songs”.
Snider soaked in the rich Texas musical culture, grabbing inspiration from gonzo-outlaw-party boy-genius songwriter Jerry Jeff Walker and folks like Joe Ely, Hal Ketchum, Billy Joe Shaver, Lyle Lovett and Robert Earl Keen. All the influences mixed together and added to Snider’s Skynyrd-Dylan-southern rock soul result in a sound that’s both original and stolen. And it is a good thing.
We can hear touches of all of those artists in Todd’s music. But his point of view, as his song points out, makes everything alright.
“He is a helluva writer,” Rock 104’s Doc West said. “That’s the thing that impresses me. I met him back when we brought him to town the very first time (1994), and he’s great on stage.
But there is a great photo of him on his first album, laboring over a pad of legal paper. He’s a writer, and he’s a very, very good one.”
His new record draws obvious comparisons to artists like Petty, with it’s accessible lyrics and ringing guitars.
“That never bothered me,” Snider said, of comparisons. “When people come up to me and say ‘you remind me of John Prine’ or ‘you remind me of Steve Earle’, I just say ‘great’.
“But I’ve been playing since I was 20. I’m 31 now. And (I’m being) compared to Tom Petty. I love Tom Petty, so if that’s my big tag for life, that doesn’t scare me,” he said.
“I don’t think it’s true,” Snider told Rolling Stone. “I thing we’re better than them.”
Reverence and attitude. Two of the biggest factors going for Snider. He had enough attitude to get kicked off his first record label, Capital Records, after not allowing the record executives force him into a studio with a band other than his own.
So Todd went back to Memphis and played a solo gig every Thursday at a club called The Daily Planet. He found Keith Sykes, musician who was in Jimmy Buffett’s Coral Reefer Band. Sykes helped Snider get together with Buffett and in 1993, Todd signed with Margaritaville Records, a new label Jimmy had formed.
Like Buffett, Snider creates a concert party. With ace guitarist Will Kimbrough, longtime bass player Joe Marienchek (be ready, Todd will have you yell Joe’s name at least once during the evening) and former Afghan Whig drummer Paul Bucheghanni (pronounced Buk’-in-yanni), the band’s purpose also involves spreading the gospel of homegrown rock and roll.
Snider will fire up the crowd. He will make them sing. Everyone will dance.
“Every night, it seems we are getting better,” Snider said. “I never know what’s going to happen, but I know that we’re out there connecting souls.”
So turn off that old movie projector. Open the curtain. Turn it up. Todd’s in town.
Todd rants and rolls – by rn
I remember my first time.
It was Indianapolis, on a snowy January night.
Todd Snider and his band was at playing at the Patio. The line stretched around the corner. All I knew was some song called “Alright Guy” had reached through my car radio speakers and grabbed me by the shoulders and said “Uh, hey buddy. There’s something cool goin’ on here.”
And it was that first live show that hooked me. It wasn’t just the music, which was gut-busting good. It wasn’t the just the words, which were cool to sing with Todd. No, it was something Todd did three times. Five times.
Ten times. Hell, I had beer. I don’t know how many times, in the course of the show, he’d bring the band way down, and over top a juicy groove, Todd would rant.
About anything.
Beautiful part was he took the crowd with him during the story, building the suspense until the band exploded back into the song like a wrecking ball into a building.
It still happens. At every show.
Rant and roll. Just like the examples below, compiled from actual Todd Snider shows over the past couple of years, all voiced while the band played on.
A lot of people over the last year have listened to our music and some people have written about it. Some have called me a cynic.
A cynic? I am here set the record straight. I am not a cynic.
I believe in a better world. I believe the meek shall inherit. Until all of us stop counting on or blaming the rich white politicians to take care of us, and as soon as we turn around and make ourselves into a country instead of this big, fat beer commercial we have become, it will happen, sooner than later.
Memphis, Tennesee, 1996If you’ve ever seen us play before, you know we don’t like to leave until every single solitary person in the entire building is singing and has made unforgettable asses of themselves.
We make you the same promise we makes everybody. If you look straight ahead, and you let everything go and let yourself shake and let yourself do what you want to do, I promise when you wake up tomorrow and can’t quite remember what you did, please remember that you weren’t as big of a jackass as I was.
Bryan, Texas, 1997And then we get into a van and come to a town in Indiana where a bunch of people are wanting to connect in a spiritual sort of way.
Indianapolis, Indiana,1996