|
Noise: King salmon, Leftover Salmon, has battled its way to the top of the jamband heap
By Jeff Inman (inman@vegas.com)
Las Vegas Weekly - February 2001
It's hard to think of a bunch of neo-hippies getting rowdy. Sure, the patchouli wafting from a group of kids decked out in hemp clothes and Birkenstocks might be enough to make you gag a bit. But, unless you consider spinning like a human top rowdy, it's hard to put Leftover Salmon's first full-blown festival, Planet Salmon Fest, on par with Woodstock '99. The whole thing seemed more like Mardi Gras than a prelude to an anger management course: parades, beads, and the host band decked out in medieval costumes. But according to Salmon's vocalist/mandolin player, Drew Emmitt, Rock Grass, the festival's ground-zero venue outside Lyons, Colo., wasn't too happy.
"They weren't used to something that big," Emmitt says of last September's show, which drew thousands of jam-happy fans. "They're used to small bluegrass festivals, not anything as elaborate or rowdy as we put on. They thought it was too much, so I don't think we'll be allowed to do another festival there."
It doesn't really matter. Planet Salmon served its purpose. The show was a fresh start for the decade-old Colorado band. Several new members played their first show with the group. The sheer volume of people was a sign that Leftover Salmon has moved up in the jamband ranks, joining elders like Phish, Blues Traveler and Widespread Panic.
It was also proof that Salmon doesn't need to play the major label game to be successful. The festival capped off two years of fighting with its former label, Hollywood Records, with the band breaking free of its contract and, like some others of the jam scene elite--namely Widespread, moe.--returning to the independent ranks. The fight began over the group's last studio effort, the all-star Nashville Sessions. The group's most solid record to date, the disc featured guest performances by everyone from country outlaws Waylon Jennings and Lucinda Williams to bluegrass god Del McCoury and banjo king Bela Fleck. Emmitt says the band hoped that because of all the A-listers, as well as the group's genre-bending ability--Salmon can skip between bluesgrass, folk, country, rock and jazz with the ease of a kid playing hopscotch--it might score Salmon some serious exposure. Nothing happened. The label barely pushed the disc. Salmon felt gypped. "We're a little disappointed by the whole thing," Emmitt says. "We really felt something could have happened with that record. We expected Hollywood to do a lot more than they did. I guess that's what happens at a major record label. We saw the carrot, it was there, and we chased it. But we learned an important lesson there: that big labels are obsolete, especially at this level."
It's true. For a band like Salmon, touring, not album sales, has always been the lifeblood. Only ultra-popular acts like Phish ever reach platinum status--and then barely. The rest survive by living on the road, playing the festival circuit, and building up a diehard fanbase. One live tape traded between friends is better than a video on VH1. A single camping weekend will get you in front of thousands of potential new fans.
Of course, it's still risky business. For its first three years, Salmon never stepped outside Colorado's borders; they were content to spread the message at home. But in '93, the group started venturing out across the country, trying to get the grassroots foundation. Salmon almost didn't survive.
"We went through a lot of hard times," Emmitt says. "We could barely feed our families for the first few years. We were losing our butts on the road. We were riding around in a converted school bus. It wasn't that glamorous. "But after a decade of shows, Leftover Salmon is sitting pretty. The sextet continually sells out shows, and they're able to pull off things like Planet Salmon. Like singer Vince Herman croons on the funky alt.country fest "Breakin' Thru": "It seems like we're finally breaking through now/ All the dreams are finally coming true somehow." But Emmitt is fully aware that for a band like Salmon, breaking through still doesn't mean Top 40 success and Grammy duets with Jennifer Lopez. And that's just fine with him.
"The music industry has gotten really confusing," Emmitt says. "It used to be you'd get a radio hit and go out and support it, but it doesn't happen that way now. There's such a separation between the mainstream and bands that are doing it grassroots like us. Yeah, there are bands that are still trying for that radio hit; and that's fine. But it doesn't do much for them in the long run. Even if they have a hit on the radio, they can't sell out a show, which is something grassroots bands can do almost any night of the week. And when you do have a hit, how long does it last? N'Sync may be huge now, but let's see where they're at in 11 years."
Emmitt's pretty certain where he'll be: standing on stage, mandolin in hand, playing the role of jamband court jester, the way it should be. He says that with the influx of a few new members, Salmon is a reinvigorated band, taking on a new style--more rockin'--and a new attitude. Another decade seems easy.
"We feel like we can keep going for as long as we want to do it," he says. "We can just keep plugging away and it'll be great. And that's how it's supposed to be."
|
