By Eleni P. Austin
The thing about Twang is, either you got it, or you ain’t. David Serby’s got Twang. As to that age-old question, nurture or nature, well that’s up for debate. Although he was born in Los Angeles, he spent his formative years in a small Illinois farming community where the population hovered around 1,200. As a kid, music was a constant companion, radios, record players and even clacking eight tracks (clicking over mid-song!) provided a childhood soundtrack. Country hitmakers like Willie Nelson, Statler Brothers, Johnny Cash, Roger Miller and Buck Owens were ever-present, along with Big Band music from Glen Miller, Benny Goodman and Count Basie, as well as standard-bearers like Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Patty Page and Tony Bennett. All of it made an impression. Rock & Roll was never part of the playlist, but he drew early inspiration from the swivel-hipped King Of Rock & Roll, Elvis Presley, following repeated viewings of his Aloha From Hawaii Via Satellite television special.
David started off playing violin in grade school. By the time he was in junior high, and the family had relocated to Orange County, he moved over to saxophone. Pretty soon, he began fooling around with an acoustic guitar that belonged to his sister. Much like Bob Dylan, he went electric, purchasing a used guitar and Yamaha amp.
By high school, he was starting bands with friends, fronting them and writing his own songs. The Southern California scene afforded a wider array of musical stimuli. A seminal moment for teenage David was seeing Devo perform on Saturday Night Live in the late ‘70s. He made his bones playing lunchtime school concerts, talent contests, garage shows and backyard parties, graduating to dive bars and small clubs once he turned 18. By then, Punk had gained a foothold behind the Orange Curtain. Inspirations like The Ramones, Sparks, X The Blasters and Rank & File began to influence his songwriting style.
Following college, and freshly married, David put music on the backburner and began concentrating on his second favorite obsession, the movie business. As a screenwriter he made some headway, but it started to feel like for every one step forward, it was two steps back. He grew weary of trying to create art through committee. He missed the immediacy of writing a song, learning it and playing it live, all in the same day. As his marriage was ending, he returned to his first love, music.
Diving head-first into L.A.’s thriving music scene, he performed at open mics, dive bars and clubs. Essentially any place where live music was happening. One musician who wound up becoming a mentor and friend was Ed Tree. With Ed’s encouragement and assistance, original songs were demo’ed and recorded. In the last couple decades David has released a clutch of critically acclaimed solo albums that include2006’s I Just Don’t Go Home, 2007’s Another Sleepless Night, 2009’s Honkytonk And Vine, 2011’s Poor Man’s Poem and 2013’s The Latest Scam.
David relocated to the desert for a few years, seduced by the wide-open spaces and the Cosmic American sound pioneered by desert habitue Gram Parsons. He played a around town, including several well-received shows at Pappy & Harriet’s (back went that meant something). But he recently returned to the L.A. area, just in time to release his sixth long-player, Low Hanging Stars.
The record is off to a rollicking start with “Fishtail Cadillac.” Pounding piano notes wrap around scattershot guitars, knotty bass lines and breakneck beat. The opening verse deftly sets the scene: “I stepped out of the Honky-Tonk, she was sitting on my hood, I said ‘you better look out boys, I know this won’t be good,’ she knocked the hat right off my head, said ‘you’re done hurting me,’ reached under my wheel well and grabbed my hide-a-key.” A pursuit ensues and the arrangement puts the pedal to the metal. At the break, Boogie-Woogie piano collides with guitars that sting and spiral. In the end, his ex has the last laugh: “I watched her drive away, wearing my old Stetson, in my fishtail Cadillac, she gave me one last wave, blasting Alan Jackson, my favorite eight-track, in my fishtail Cadillac.”
The record is dotted with three South Of The Border charmers. “The Jukebox Is Broken” is splits the difference between a tart Texas Two-Step and a spectral lament. Fluttery Conjunto accordion lattices across rumbly bass lines, prickly guitar riffs and a walloping beat. The crisp melody and instrumentation belie lyrics that mourn a bygone era: “The cowboys lined up at the bar are just a row of lonely ghosts, wishing they could find a gal and hold that stranger close, and they hear a haunted echo of a sad old Country song, the hardwood floors are empty, those nights are dead and gone.”
“Another Chance To Dream” weds courtly Spanish guitar, sparkly accordion, willowy keys and pliant bass to a tick-tock beat. Lyrics like “Each night the sweet orange blossoms bloom, starlight twinkles through the trees, little birds sing a morning chorus, I feel our love floating on a breeze,” pine for a lost love. David avoids reality by dwelling in the subconscious. Even as the song is suffused in sadness, gossamer guitar and lilting accordion execute a tender pas de deux on the break that renders the ache bittersweet.
Meanwhile, “Trying To Get To Encinitas” is a fraught travelogue powered by rippling guitars, woozy accordion, fluid bass lines and a leap-frog beat. Dave’s lanky tenor unspools a hapless yarn of a sad-sack suitor hoping to reconnect with his sweetie: “I was standing on the platform waiting on a southbound train, I wrapped myself in faded newsprint to keep me warm against the rain, I felt someone pick my pocket, I turned around and they weren’t there, I slept all night in Union station, no one would help me with my fare.” Tricked-out guitar filigrees dance across swirly accordion fills on the break, but the bad juju never subsides: “I made it down to San Clemente, I found a quarter on the street, but they tore out all the pay phones, I guess what they think of folks like me, I stopped into a little Mission, the Padre said he’d say a prayer, if God could send me down some wings, because flying is the only way I’m getting there.”
David’s sound comfortably straddles a plethora of styles. “Lonely Motel Nights” with it’s jittery Vox organ notes, nimble bass lines, jangly guitars and snapback beat recall Lonestar antecedents like Sir Douglas Quintet and Joe “King” Carrasco. A nuanced narrative, it involves another forsaken swain living on the margins: “A gal checked in from Idaho, we smoke a little weed, and we watch The Rockford Files, her name is Blaze, she sometimes dances for me, right in front of her TV, Hey, we’re just living lonely motel days,” The lithe Tex-Mex melody and arrangement, including a plinky, two-fingered Vox solo, nearly camouflages the dazed days of dislocation and desperation.
Then there’s the driving Roots-Rocker, “Why Leave Los Angeles.” Slash and burn guitars ride roughshod over barbed bass lines and a blistering beat. Caustic lyrics work through a laundry list of woes that will seem familiar to any hard-working musician: “Well, the king of Country put away his crown, every guitar player is leaving town, I keep hearing I should do the same, pack up everything I got, find another spot and stake my claim/But they got trouble in Houston too, Nashville will beat you black and blue, they ain’t built a town can’t drag you to your knees, sure we’re all broke and the gigs don’t pay, but that ain’t driving me away, because those other towns don’t come with guarantees, so why leave Los Angeleez?” Even as David’s roughhewn vocal delivery mirrors his career woes, shapeshifter guitars jackrabbit through the arrangement, alleviating the angst. While plying his trade, he experiences a revelation: “Now we’re playing to another half-full room, but they’re singing along with every tune, and if that ain’t worth the trouble we got here, then Baby, we just don’t belong, and we should tear up every song and sell our gear.”
Twangy guitars, thumpy bass and a caffeinated shuffle rhythm anchor “She Ain’t Changed At All.” Chancing upon a former flame at the local mall, David quickly falls under her spell: “And then she looked at me just like she never left, with a smile that made me fall, and when she said my name it took away my breath, I got to say she ain’t changed at all.” Crashing cymbal splashes bookend the chorus as he attempts to put his feelings in check, but he’s reunited, and it feels so good. Predictably, it’s no surprise when his ex remains true to form: “We walked all over town, we talked until dawn, she promised me she’d call, even as she kissed me I knew she was moving on, I got to say she ain’t changed at all, I got to say, she ain’t changed at all.”
Finally, the title track is hard-charging and anthemic, powered by shang-a-lang guitars, wily bass lines and a whipcrack beat. In a perfect world, it would sandwich nicely on a playlist that includes Steve Earle, Bruce Springsteen and the late, great Tom Petty. Pithy lyrics chronicle the highs and lows that accompany the life of a Hardcore Troubadour: “Our names were up in neon, we lit up the sky, so bright when you saw us, you’d cover up your eyes, now we sleep in doorways of cold, back-alley bars, but higher than ever, we’re low hanging stars.” On the break, guitar riffs, chime, squall and ricochet across boomerang bass lines and a propulsive beat. The final verse seems to reference the desolate demise of Hank Williams, Sr,: “Our names were up in neon, so bright we lit up the sky, so bright when you saw us, you’d cover up your eyes, now we sleep on back seats of cold, slow-moving cars.”
Other interesting tracks include the hardscrabble heartbreak of “I Bought The Ring” and the record closes with “Is It Lonely In Here.” Loping guitars, sinewy bass and keening keys are tethered to a galloping gait. But the jaunty melody can’t camouflage this barroom lament: “Is it me, or do bar lights dim like dying stars, is it me, or do teardrops fall like steel guitars, is it me, or does a heart crack like a tavern mirror, is it me, or is it lonely in here?” Even as the instrumentation manages to hug the hairpin turns of the rugged arrangement, the heartache never abates. A sad, but ultimately hopeful finish to a great record.
David relied on a wolfpack of pickers and players to bring this record to fruition. Gregory Boaz and Taras Prodaniuk handled bass duties, both Dale Daniel and Scott Babcock manned the drum kit. Carl Byron added piano, Hammond B3 and accordion while Darice Bailey supplied backing vocals, Vox organ, piano and Wurlitzer. Of course, David sang and played acoustic guitar. The record was produced by Ed Tree, who also provided electric guitars.
In the tradition of Hardcore Troubadours and Honky-Tonk Heroes, Low Hanging Stars is music made for Juke Joints, cantinas, dive bars and Honky-Tonks. David’s songs feel fresh, yet familiar, shot-through with humor, heartache, grit, gravitas and plenty o’ Twang.
