Ben Sandmel
(Ben Sandmel is a New Orleans based drummer, journalist and folk lore researcher)

"All of my songs are personal, some are historical or chronological narratives; others are more impressionistic. But that doesn't make one song truer than another. They're all true-it's all stuff that has happened to me, either literally or metaphorically."

For the past two decades, Guy Clark's truthful, insightful and brilliantly crafted songs have enriched contemporary music. Some of them, such as "Heartbroke," "Desperados Waitin' for a Train," "Oklahoma Borderline," "She's Crazy For Leavin'" and "The Last Gunfighter Ballad" have scored hits for a host of country artists including Ricky Skaggs, The Highwaymen, Vince Gill and Rodney Crowell. But while Clark is based in Nashville, and his impact is strongest in country cirlces-mainly as a writer, his six prior albums notwithstanding -his talent transcends the parameters both of country music, and songwriting in general. At their best, Clark's perspective vignettes and succinct character studies encapsulate the spirit of such fine American novelists as John Steinbeck, Nelson Algren and Cormac McCarry. In that same earthy, unpretensious tradition, Clark's profound moments are balanced with plenty of material that's lighthearted and fun.

Clark performs these gems with minimal, less-is-more accompaniment. "I see myself as a folk singer," he comments. "I never played with a band when I was younger. When there's too much instrumentation the songs get lost." His singing is simultaneously street-wise and poignant, with a Texas accent and a Texas/hipster sensibility. It's not a commercially- conscious style, and successful renditions of his songs have not made Guy Clark a slick source for sure-fire hits. But the genuine and often compelling music that Clark creates has earned him deep respect in the country/folk community. Often cited as a major influence on sucg accomplished progressive-country songwriters as Rodney Crowell, Lyle Lovett, and Nanci Griffith, Clark comments, "It's flattering. I hope that the good parts of what I do are an influence on `em. But only o the extent that they take it and make something of their own."

Clark's songs often focus on working people, reflecting his own diverse history. "I've done a lot of things - carpentry ... drafting structural steel ... art director at a TV station ... unloading boxcars of terrazzo marble. I worked in the Dopera Brothers dobro factory in California. I also built about 15 classical guitars myself, and I used do guitar repairs. That's something you have to devote your life to, you can't do it half-assed. I still keep a workshop to piddle around in, though. I love to work with my hands."

Besides mastering the intricasies of guitar-making, Clark worked in a shipyard, and various aspects of the experience are reflected in several of his songs, including "Boats To Build," "Blowin' Like A Bandit" and "The South Coast of Texas." "It was a summer job during high school," he recalls. "They were building the last big wooden shrimp boats that were made before they switched over to steel. I was really impressed by the pride that the carpenters took in their craftsmanship, and their attitude that `faster is not always better.` When you're building with wood every little piece is different, and you have to put more care into it that just working by the hour. I try to take that same approach with my songs, as far as quality taking precedence over quantity. I can't crank out cookie-cutter songs. I write `em for me, and everyone is different. Somebody called me once and said, `So and so is recording next week, we need some songs, write me another `Heartbroke.' I might have done it if I could, `cause there's big money to be made. But I can't. I have songs that I've worked on for years and years that finally come to fruition. Songs like `Baton Rouge,' `Ramblin' Jack and Mahan,' and `I Don't Love You Much, Do I.' I held on to them and kept tinkerin because I knew they had good parts; I didn't want to throw those parts away just because the song wasn't working."

Clark's slowly-evolving compositions reveal a gift for speaking volumes in the span of a few short verses. This eloquent articulation can be traced in part to his parents, who were more literary than musical. "I was born in West Texas," he recalls, "in a little town called Monahans, between Pecos and Odessa. In sixth grade we moved to Rockport, on the Texas Gulf Coast. My dad was a lawyer, and my mother encouraged us to take an interest in the arts. When my parents were going to high school part of the cirriculum was choral reading - fifteen or so kids reciting poetry in unison. It's a beautiful sound. We had a radio but it was definitely the pre-TV era. We would read poetry most evenings, things by Robert Service and Steven Vincent Benet. My parents weren't musicians but they loved dancing to the big band sound, the music of their youth."

Although Clark's lyrical skills were nurtured early on, he didn't begin playing until his late teens. "My father's law partner, Lola bonner, played Mexican music. When I hear her play guitar the attraction was just instantaneous. It was so beautiful and mystical. The next time I went to Mexico I bought a cheap guitar. I came back and learned everything I could from her; the first songs I learned were mostly in Spanish. When you live in South Texas, there are so many musical styles that you're exposed to and influenced by - blues, country, Cajun, and Mexican, as well as the music of the European people who settled there, people from Germany, Czechoslovakia, and Poland."

"After I got out of high school I went to several different colleges and wound up in Houston. I got involved with John Lomax, Jr. and the Houston Folklore Society, and the local folk-club scene. I was really lucky because when I first started playing I got to hang out with, listen to, and sit right in front of these great old blues players like Mance Lipscomb and Lightnin' Hopkins. It was a great time, `cause I was also hanging out with guys like Townes Van Zandt, Jerry Jeff Walker, and the Thirteenth Floor Eleveators. Very influential stuff."

"Those blues singers were a big influence [on] me, I love that music. I usually put atleast one bluesy song on every album; there a three on _Boats to Build_: `How'd You Get This Number,' `Must Be My Baby,' and `Too Much.' And `Texas Cookin', the title track from my second album, is a direct draw on that Mance Lipscomb country-blues guitar style."

Following his first taste of public performance on Houston's folk circuit, Clark moved to the Bay Area in the late 60's. "it was the end of the hippie deal," he recalls, "the real flower children had grown up and it was mostly speed and bikers. I played in some little clubs in North Beach, and repaired guitars.' Returning to Houston, Clark spent a year as a television-station art directory. "It came easy to me," he says casually. "I was playing at night, but I hadn't decided to try music full-time. Televisison is relentless. There's no such thing as 'five more minutes' - it goes on the air NOW. I could do it and do it well, buit I started wondering, "Why?"

Clark's eventual commitment to music was strongly encouraged by his wife. A song writer and artist, like Guy, Susanna Clark has created album-cover paintings for Willie Nelson's _Stardust_ and Emmylou Hariss' _Quarter Moon In A Ten-Cent Town._ She has also written such succesful country songs as "I'll Be Your San Antone Rose," "Easy From Now On." and "Come From The Heart." "I've learned a lot from Susanna," Guy Says, "because I'm pretty uptight and compulsive, with an attitude like `If you're painting you have to wash out every brush, you have to take care of your tools,' and she looks at it like `This ain't about cleaning brushes, dumb-ass, it's about painting. Just do it.' That approach is the idea behind `Picasso's Mandolin.' I need to remind myself that it's alright to be spontaneous, to reaffirm it- I'm not preaching to anyone but me."

"I have lots of ways of tricking myself into writing songs," Clark divulges. "For a while I only wrote in hardbound cloth journals, but then the books became more important than the songs, so I started writing on paper with just the right texture, using just the right softlead pencil. That way you can put old and new pages next to each other. Lately I've been using a fountain pen; I may try colored paper next. Sometimes I set up two tables, with a swivel chair between `em. I'll write for awhile and then turn around and paint, or build a model airplane, or throw darts. It's easy to overload on the cerebral aspects of writing. I've found that some activity involving hand-eye coordination gives each side of the brain a chance to catch it's breath. I also have a little office available to me- that's a misnomer really `cause it's just a garret overlooking Music Row. Not even big enough for a dart board. I'll go there sometimes if I'm spending too much time at home, goofing off, watching TV, and generally doing anything too keep from writing. Whatever you can do to trick yourself into writing is fair. The office isn't the point. The paper isn't the point. The point is writing. "Townes Van Zandt is one of the reasons I started writing songs. He writes serious, he writes seriously funny. But he never rhymes moon-june-soon to make a buck, it's more of a literary approach. His work is a great yardstick. He consistently keeps me honst, he showed us all ho to write better songs - me, Rodney Crowell, Lyle Lovett, Mickey Newbury, Billy Joe Shaver, and everyone who picked up a guitar afterwards.

"To me, what makes great songs is involving individuals and letting them experience it in their own heads. It's about emotions, not the details. That's been true forever, since `Greensleeves.' I'm only responsible for what I feel, but if people connect with it, or it mirrors their experience (or they want it to), or it makes a difference to `em - that's why I do this, and if I've done it right, they're gonna get it."

"Something else that's important," Guy Clark concludes, "is dignity. You'll see that idea in some of my songs, people surviving, and doing it with a sense of humor and a sense of dignity. you can't take yourself too seriously, but you can't blow it all off, either. There's got to be a healthy mix. And I'll bet that when you're dying, you're not going to think about the money you made. You're going to think about your art."