Tuesday, December 13, 2005

They Sang Along

My Adventures With John Dufilho and All the Rest

By Jim Phillips

DALLAS — John Dufilho has only given me one piece of unsolicited advice as long as I have known him. He told me, "Don't take any of this too seriously. Always have fun. As soon as you start to take it seriously, just remember that being in a band is kind of dumb. It's supposed to be." I remember at the time that he seemed desperate to get that across to me.

Oh, Hi . . . Nice To Meet You.

Photo by Kate Mackley

Jim Phillips of Lousy Robot

I met John at the Launchpad in Albuquerque. My band, Lousy Robot, had conned our way into a slot opening for John's band, The Deathray Davies. We had a short chat before the show and I figured that would be that. I had a great admiration and respect for John and just wanted to meet him. It was worth the loss of sleep and the constant mood swings that it caused for weeks in advance.

When we got onstage to play, I noticed John sitting in the balcony above the stage. (I never even knew there was a balcony up there.) He watched our set intently, completely freaking me out. It was unnerving, at best.

Here, Like This.

Months passed after our first meeting. And I was mostly feeling like things were not going in the right direction. Lousy Robot had done some recordings, but they were just not shaping up to our satisfaction. The production values were just not there. And there was something timid about them that I felt the songs didn't deserve. I needed a different idea conveyed and I did not know how to do that.

To top it off, a number of things in my life had taken a turn for the worse and I was beginning to feel like my light was going out. Strange as it seems, this only deepened my resolve to get the songs out there. I just needed to turn some kind of corner. I needed to head in a new, better direction.

Right, well . . . as I pondered production values and wrong turns and corners and lights going out, my good friend and Lousy Robot co-conspirator, Dandee, had sent an e-mail to The Deathray Davies (all of them) asking if any of them ever did any producing. His clear intent was to talk to John, but damned if he didn't e-mail all of them. (Understand that this was all behind my back. I would not have allowed Dandee to send that message. And even given the outcome, if I went back, I probably still wouldn't let him. Yeah, I know.)

But he did receive one response. John Dufilho was interested in the idea. I did not know it right away, but I had found my corner.

A Weird Awakening.

An agreement from John to produce our album resulted in a plan where we would come to Dallas for a long weekend and record. John's suggestion was that we set up camp at Pleasantry Lane Studio with Salim Nourallah. This decision completely solidified my confidence in John. Salim turned out to be a brilliant musician and engineer as well as an instant family member. Never before have I felt so welcomed in someone's home and business.

I remember arriving late in the evening and going in to check out the studio. John and Salim were busy working on some project or other and took the time to show us around. This was the place. This was right.

Photo by Kate Mackley

John Dufhilo

Afterwards, we went to The Barley House where John was to meet us for drinks and discussion of a highly musical nature. We were being effectively ignored by the other customers in the bar, which is only natural Dandee turns to me and says, "We're about to be the most popul= ar people here." Just then, John comes tumbling through the door flashing smiles and hellos. He sits down with us. And the bar crowd is instantly hovering over our table. Regulars, waitresses, the owner and anybody who wanted to get a look at The Fortunate People. I decided that we were on to something. This Dufilho thing had wheels.

A New Singing Outfit

The resulting recording session over a Friday the 13th weekend is nearly impossible to describe. It was three marathon days of working, laughing, playing, clapping and creating to get 10 songs ready to go. It was the greatest learning experience that I have ever had. John and Salim were generous to the point of being absurd. And it did not take long before we realized that this was just how they were. They shared secrets. Openly criticized. Laughed. Taught. Inspired. They gave us their time and their ideas. And we made a record. All of us together made a record.

Upon completion, we headed home to Albuquerque. But we were different people now. We had been profoundly changed. And it showed. We had a new confidence and a new way of looking at things. More importantly, we had a new love and appreciation for music. And we understood the price of this love and appreciation. We knew our strengths and we were proud of them. You can't buy that sort of thing. Someone has to find it in you. We had John and Salim to thank for that.

Again.

The decision to return to Pleasantry Lane for our follow-up recording a year later was an easy one to make. Dandee and I had some discussions about other places, other ideas. But the thought of working with John and Salim again was simply too beguiling. We wanted that feeling back. We also wanted to point out to them how much we had grown. How we had taken the lessons that they taught us and made them our own. We wanted to show them that we were playing to our strengths and that we were getting stronger. And we worked together like old friends. The return was as rich an experience as the first.

The Illusion.

Rich, yes. In the end. But it started off with all the grim qualities of a doomed project. During the spring of 2005, Dandee and I decided to make an October return to the studio. Or thereabouts. We needed to book time with John and Salim, but had some issues. The songs were not completed. We had no drummer and no keyboard player. And no money. It was essentially just Dandee and I and our agonizing determination to make something. Something cool. People were starting to shake their heads at us. Nothing was looking like it was supposed to look.

We asked John what he thought we should do. And without hesitating he said, "Book the time and make a record. I'll help with whatever else you need." Well . . . there you go. I finished the songs and we put the band back together with a lineup that gave us confidence. And the reason that we were able to pull it off is simple. Dandee and I were prepared to walk into the studio alone and make this record. Screw everyone else and the way that things are supposed to look. John's faith in us was unwavering. And we believed that that meant something. Still do.

Learning To Swim The Atlantic

It's interesting what one e-mail message can accomplish. And I am now at a point where it's not necessarily about the music at all. I have learned that what is important is to think big. All the time. If you provide yourself with limitations when you begin, then that is what your end result will be. Limited. And the last thing that you want to limit is a friendship.

And Then.

I have so many reasons why I love music. But mainly I love the people that I have had the opportunity to meet. People that "never yawn," as Bob Dylan would say. People like John and Salim are people that I admire more than I can express. And I count them among my friends.

When John's solo record was recently released, Dandee and I saw that our names were on it in the Thank You section. I don't have words for that.

Spending time with people that you admire will naturally change you. But I am overwhelmed, consumed by the idea that you might have some sort of effect on someone that you admire. I had never considered the possibility. And I don't even mean musically. There really is so much more than that out there. Besides, being in a band is kind of dumb.

See more stories in: