John Kruth, The Troubadour Who Sang With Patti Smith On The Bowery

John Kruth

The Troubadour Who Sang With Patti Smith On The Bowery

by Larry Baumhor

(All photographs courtesy of John Kruth)

      John Kruth is a celestial being! He is profoundly affected by our musical ancestors and is motivated in part by his collective unconscious. John is therefore like the Carl Jung of music.

You can’t pigeonhole John into a genre. His music is inspirational and improvisational. This multi-instrumentalist singer/songwriter plays the mandolin, guitar, banjo, harmonica, sitar, Indian zither called Bulbul Tarang and the mandocello. 

      “I never learned the bebop language. I can play jazz from improvisation with the flute and mandolin. I was inspired by African, Eastern European, Irish, and Middle Eastern folk melodies. Don Cherry was drawing music repertoire from folk music and he brought that into jazz. Cherry and Taj Mahal were a huge influence on me. They expanded the vocabulary of folk music.”

      “Brian Jones from the Stones taught us how to expand the palate by playing different instruments. His multi-instrumental approach to enhancing songs with everything from dulcimer to recorder, sitar, harmonica, and marimba (beyond his excellent slide guitar playing) really inspired me to think of sound as color. Then I heard the Incredible String band and Rahsaan Roland Kirk and was off on my multi-instrumental journey “having a go” a Robin Williamson with anything and everything that made sound” – John Kruth quote, 2-29-2020.

      Perhaps you’re not familiar with John Kruth. That’s okay, but others are, with 11 solo albums to date, Kruth has performed with or opened for some of the biggest stars: Ornette Coleman, Allen Ginsberg, Sam Shepherd, John Prine, Patti Smith, Rick Danko, Laurie Anderson, John Cale, Gatemouth Brown, Albert Collins, Robert Plant, Lou Reed, Joan Jett, Violent Femmes, The Meat Puppets, Taj Mahal, King Missle, Elizabeth Swados, and worked with producers Joel Dorn and Hal Willner. 

      John Kruth is impossible to peg – his omnivorous approach yields a wealth of riches, ranging from Mid-Eastern jams to Waits-like blues ballads to squirrelly jazz-pop ditties. - Dallas Morning News

Music Emerging: Inspiring Talks
John Kruth – March 1, 2020 – with Cynthia Brando

New York

      “Following my first gig at Folk City, in Greenwich Village, in 1979, the great folksinger, Odetta, called me over to her table and asked my name. She told me she enjoyed my songs and mandolin playing. She just sat there with her big bright smile and third eye sparkling. “Have a seat!” she said. Not surprisingly her table was filled with a clutch of friends and fans. There wasn’t a chair to be found. 

      “Looks like there’s no place to park” I said. She smiled and patted her hefty thigh and said, “Right here baby.” So, I sat on Odetta’s lap and immediately understood that everything else in life from that point on was just gravy.”

(Unpublished memoir, A Bright Collection of Strange Victories: My Weird Life in Music, By John Kruth)

Folk City was where Bob Dylan debuted “Blowin’ in the Wind” and was also the place where he met Joan Baez.

Larry Baumhor: You’ve played in many venues throughout the country and world. I would like your opinion and stories of what it was like to play Max’s and CBGBs? Was it solo, with a group, what years? Any unusual experiences? 

John Kruth: “I came back to NYC in ’78 from Minneapolis. My band at the time – the Whirling’ Dervishes – were gaining some popularity playing bars and art galleries in Minneapolis and everyone in the band wanted to go to NYC and make it big. Seeing I was from there (I knew we’d get our asses kicked!) and didn’t want to return, as my parents were going through an ugly divorce at the time and the city was really funky in the mid/late seventies... so I was the last one to join them. But we got some gigs at Max’s and CBGBs as The Whirling’ Dervishes – but it seemed that someone else had that name already so we had to change it.

      “I had just published my 2nd book of poetry called Rabbit Ears (some of those poems were published in the New York Times and Rolling Stone) - which seemed kinda like a fun/retro name at the moment - so we went with that. I played a yellow Les Paul through a Pig Nose amp at Max’s. For a short time, I had a woman lead singer in the band named Mona. But as she was not dependable, and forgot the words to my songs and was in the process of becoming a Christian, we soon dropped her from the band. She had sung with us in Minneapolis when the Dervishes were the art school (Minneapolis College of Art & Design) band in the early/mid-seventies. But as I recall, she took too many diet pills trying to get into some tight dress and wound up going off her head at the crowd at the Minneapolis Art Institute.”

      “I liked Max’s better than most NYC joints as it had an art crowd and we had played around the Minneapolis art scene for a couple of years.  We also played CBGBs at the time which was a shithole and smelled like a toilet. I purposely dressed kind of preppy - in like a corduroy jacket - because I thought the punk all-black costume was a conformity trip. We didn’t go down too well at CBGBs - The crowd spit at us and screamed “You Suck!” to which I remember Mona answering them. ‘We may suck but we don’t swallow!’ 

     “Our repertoire was basically revved up Robert Johnson songs like “Hellhound on My Trail,” “Call the Doctor” by J.J. Cale, which had a Doors-like apocalyptic-thing going on, in which I could scream and fall on the floor… and Randy Newman’s “Burn Down the Cornfield” and “Guilty.” So, themes of death, fear, claustrophobia, and self-loathing were quite popular with us.  I soon began writing my own tunes, realized no one could hear my lyrics at CBGBs and most punk venues and decided to play at Folk City. I didn’t really fit in there either. But Pat DiNizio of the Smithereens, who used to do sound there, dug us and booked us as part of the Wednesday night series called Loved by Dozens, that rocked more than the typical singer/songwriters they had. Also, I started using the mandolin as a rock instrument as I was getting really bored with how common and predictable the guitar was. With Mona gone I now sang lead full time. We eventually changed our name to the Usual Suspects (ref from Casablanca) I got an accordionist in the band – influenced by Richard Thompson and Balkan music – but by the mid ’80s it seemed like the club scene in NYC was dying a slow death…. I was making my first album – Midnight Snack and Brian Ritchie of Violent Femmes said, ‘Come to Milwaukee… rents and studios are cheap and we’ll play on your record!’

      “I later played CBGBs again when I was with Brian Ritchie in the late 80’s after we did an album or two for SST. I talk about it in the memoir. Someone was stabbed that night….. and then played with King Missile at CBGBs the week it closed.”

Patti Smith Performed With John Kruth

At The Bowery Poetry Club

John Kruth: “We started to play a weekly show at a little bohemian hangout called the Bowery Poetry Club, (just across the street from where the hallowed CBGBs once stood).   

      “We drew a steady crowd that occasionally included the likes of Bob Neuwirth, Sam Shepard, and Patti Smith. One night, when Patti was in the audience, I asked if any of the famous people out there would like to join us on our next song. Patti shouted back,   ‘What are you gonna do?’
   ‘“Factory Girl,’ by the Stones,’ I said. With that, she leaped out of her seat and wended her way through the crowd to the stage.  
      “Stampfel and I had been sitting close together on a couple of chairs, trading a handful of acoustic instruments back and forth – while he alone played fiddle, I blew blues harp, while we both picked guitar, banjo, and mandolin.

      “Skinny Patti in tight jeans and wife-beater t-shirt just squeezed her way between us as we began to sing the Stones’ ode to a white trash working girl. She added a chilling high-lonesome harmony and just as I began picking a mandolin solo Patti pulled her chewing gum out of her mouth, while still holding the end of it between her teeth. She stretched that gum the length of her arm and then sucked it back into her mouth, like a big long crazy noodle. Her little chewing gum routine brought down the house. I couldn’t compete with that! Later on, she came up to me and gave me her number and said, ‘I like your voice.’ She seemed kind of nervous and shy like she was asking me to the prom. I called her a few times, but wouldn’t see her again for a few years later, in London at the Ornette Coleman Meltdown.”  

John Kruth

John Kruth Performed With Allen Ginsberg

At A Church On Second Ave & St. Marks

      “As producer Hal Willner descended the basement stairs, the jam began on cue. We all had a great time and a few days later I got my first call to work with Hal. Talking with him on the phone was an interesting experience as he is a great mumbler who often leaves out key bits of information, taking for granted that you know what he was talking about: ‘I’m doing this thing with Allen [Ginsberg] tomorrow night at the church on Second avenue [St. Marks, which has had a long history of poetry readings and happenings] and I was wondering if you could bring the Moroccan band to play while Allen reads.’ Cool! I had admired Willner’s records for years, loved Allen and his poetry and figured this might be an excellent second date with the lovely blonde painter Marilyn Cvitanic, who luckily gave me another chance after I nervously dumped all the wreckage of my recent break-up on her during our first date at the Whitney.

      “It also turned out that two of Marilyn’s fave musicians, Bob Neuwirth and David Mansfield (both veterans of Dylan’s Rolling Thunder Review) were also on the bill, and with a bit more consideration for her side of the conversation and some delicious pastries and coffee delivered to her seat from backstage, things were looking up. 

      “Lateef, who ran a little jewel box of an import shop, arrived early with a large rug and some pillows and lamps for the stage, and all went well, until Allen began reading his poems about his decadent vacation in Tangier. While I was thrilled to back up Ginsberg, I can’t say the rest of the Tribe felt the same. As Allen reeled off images and memories of smoking keif and having sex with young boys, Lateef and Little Mohammed glared at me.

      “‘Why does he say these things?’ Lateef begged. ‘Even if they happen, we never speak about them… ever!’ 

      “‘He’s Allen Ginsberg, I replied. That’s what he does!’ 

      “Although I thought our first gig was fabulous, it took a lot of pleading on my part to get Jeel Salaam to perform again anywhere outside of the cozy, exotic basement of the Gates of Marrakesh. A few months later we played the Cooler, a hipster Meat Market venue with Ira Cohen, another poet who had a long history with both Ginsberg and Morocco. But luckily, the band didn’t take offense over Ira’s verse.” (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth)

      “After finally graduating from art school in 1979, I moved back to New York and got a job painting houses. What else could a Fine Arts degree possibly lead to? Living for a short time with my old pal Glenn Wolff in the East Village, we put together a series of bands with odd names like Rabbit Ears and Log Rhythm and bashed out turbo-charged punk-fueled blues tunes to small crowds at fabled joints like Max’s Kansas City and CBGBs. The set usually ended after I’d lose my voice screaming Robert Johnson’s ‘Hellhound on My Trail,’ or a maniacal version of J.J. Cale’s ‘Call the Doctor,’ with me sprawled on the stage, groaning, ‘I think I’m sick… sick… sick!’” (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth)

Violent Femmes

      “I first witnessed the Violent Femmes at Folk City, in Greenwich Village in the early eighties. The eccentric keyboard wizard of Milwaukee, Sigmund Snopek III had called, telling me to go check them out. I had been playing Folk City since the late seventies, where I met the legendary Odetta and Dave Van Ronk, the ‘Mayor of MacDougal Street,’ who could be found, most nights with drink in hand, perched on his favorite stool at the north-west corner of the bar. Although I played the club regularly, the management never gave me a prime slot on a weekend night. As the bluesman, John Hammond once explained, ‘If you play the Village too often, they’ll treat you like used furniture.’ He knew too well of which he spoke.

      “The Femmes were from Milwaukee for God’s sake and all I got was a lousy Wednesday night if I was lucky. When I arrived that night at the corner of 3rd Street and 6th Ave., there was a long line down the block, waiting to get in. But after the first tune, I had to admit that this trio of acoustic misanthropes from the Dairy State was on fire. They had the packed crowd whipped into a frenzy in no time. I hadn’t seen a band drive an audience that crazy since The Doors. At any moment, it felt like a riot might break out.

      “After the set, I approached the tall, skinny, blonde bassist, Brian Ritchie to ask him what he was listening to…

      “‘Uh, Nick Drake, Sun Ra, Captain Beefheart, Soft Machine,’ he replied. 

      “All the weird shit that I’d been into! I told him that I was a friend of Sigmund’s and played the mandolin, flute, and harmonica. He asked if I’d like to sit in the following night at their gig at Columbia University. And thus, began my career as ‘the Swiss Army Knife of Rock and Roll’ as Chris Kirkwood, bassist of the Meat Puppets later dubbed me.

      “I joined the Femmes for the most of their East Coast jaunt, becoming a full-fledged member of their revolving door of backup musicians known as the Horns of Dilemma. It was a wild ride indeed. The Femmes were packing the house everywhere they went. And everywhere they went everybody seemed to oblige them with whatever they desired, from sex and drugs to lasagna dinners. But the lightning pace of their success would soon boot them in the ass. 

      “Although their first self-titled album has since gone double platinum (‘Blister in the Sun’ would be used for a Wendy’s commercial, exacerbating the long-standing personality clash between Brian and lead singer/guitarist/songwriter Gordon Gano). The members of the band soon got to the point where they could barely tolerate each other’s company. 

      “Brian and drummer Victor DeLorenzo had first formed Violent Femmes with an eccentric filmmaker/singer/guitarist named Jerry Forte before crossing paths with Gano, a tortured high-school kid who dealt with his peers’ rejection by writing seething anthems of hatred and revenge. Brian and Victor made for a dangerous rhythm section. Well-versed in the raw intensity of the Velvet Underground and Albert Ayler’s caterwauling free jazz, they backed up this pint-sized strummer at his high school assembly and the place went berserk. They had no idea that they’d be touring the world together for the next twenty-five years.” (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth) 

John Kruth (middle back row) and the Violent Femmes outside the Speakeasy on Macdougal in
Greenwich Village, New Year’s Eve 1985 with Brian Ritchie, (scarf) Victor Delorenzo, (2nd on right side)
and Peter Balestrieri (front row, denim jacket) on sax

POLICE OUTSIDE CBGB

      “Two days later we’re finally expelled from Satan’s anus and landed with a thud on the Bowery, right outside CBGBs in New York City. It was my turn to stay with the van while the rest of the band went inside to check out the scene. The usual throng of punks, junkies, pimps, and whores were hanging around outside of the Palace Hotel, just next door to the club. A moment later three cop cars pulled up and the boys in blue jumped out with their heaters drawn. Everybody on the street froze as the cops rushed up the stairs of the Palace, Kojak style. But a minute later they came swaggering down the stairs, shoving their pistols back into their holsters, frustrated. Another false alarm.” (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth)

John Kruth front and center, Tom Paxton is in back row center, bald, with mustache, Christine Lavin,

row behind John Kruth, Tom Chapin, left back row, John Gorky, Robin Batteau, Lucy Kaplinsky

      John Kruth grew up in Livingston, NJ. His mom, Sonnie, sang for Larry Clinton’s Big Band. Sonnie and John often bantered back and forth about musicians. But Sonnie had a chip on her shoulder when motherhood snapped up her dream of becoming a star. She would remind John that if he had a voice like hers, he’d be a star. 

      As a youngster, John loved the Beatles so much so that he was literally thrown out of a pizza parlor. “It was the Beatles, or rather my total obsession with them that drove Mr. Baldoni to finally blow his top and throw me out of his pizza parlor. I had just gone to the bank and cashed a dollar bill in for ten dimes, which I proceeded to pump, one after the next, into his jukebox, intending on playing the new Beatles’ single, “I Feel Fine,” ten times in a row. I think I only got up to six as I still had a few dimes left when Mr. Baldoni began shouting in Italian as he opened the door and tossed me out onto the sidewalk. Then he told me to stay out of his restaurant. ‘And never come back no more!’ he hollered.” (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth)

      John has been a professor at Mount Saint Vincent and Manhattan College, teaching the History of Rock ‘n’ Roll, History of Jazz and, Introduction to World Music. Some of Kruth’s articles as a music journalist have appeared in the New York Times, Rolling Stone, The Progressive, Wire (UK), No Depression, Wax Poetics, Folk Roots (UK), Rave (India), and So Jazz (Switzerland). Kurth’s oeuvre consists of more than his eleven albums. He’s won awards for some of his six music books, also publishing five poetry and short storybooks. His articles appear in major magazines, periodicals, and newspapers.
     Kruth’s first biography, Bright Moments – The Life and Legacy of Rahsaan Roland Kirk was first published in the U.S. and England in 2000 by Welcome Rain Books. Bright Moments was translated into Japanese and published by Kawade Shobo in 2005. Kruth wrote a biography, Rhapsody In Black - The Life and Music of Roy Orbison from Hal Leonard Books, NYC. He is also the author of To Live’s To Fly - the Ballad of Townes Van Zandt, which was published by Da Capo Books in March 2007 and winner of 2008 Deems Taylor ASCAP Award for Best Musical Biography by the American Society of Composers, Authors & Publishers Awards (ASCAP). He was honored at Lincoln Center in New York City where he received the Deems Taylor Award which recognizes books, articles, liner notes, broadcasts and websites on the subject of music selected for their excellence.

      Van Zandt was an American songwriter who could not find fame in his own country but was successful overseas in Germany and Holland. “At a time when it’s challenging to be proud of what is going on in America,” said Kruth, “I felt that telling the story and singing the praises of a great unknown American songwriter was a patriotic thing to do.” 

      The book is a testament to Van Zandt’s life. It took Kruth four years to conduct interviews and piece together the story of the singer’s life. “It was an effort of love and devotion to a man’s music,” said Kruth. “I believe, and many others in the book will testify to this, that he was as important and inspired as other great songwriters of his day.” College of Mount Saint Vincent, the office of public relations: https://mountsaintvincent.edu/mount-professor-john-kruth-wins-award-for-best-musical-biography-of-the-year/ 

John Kruth’s latest publication is Hold On World: The Lasting Impact of

John Lennon & Yoko Ono’s Plastic Ono Band – 50 Years On

      New York City’s TriBeCaStan is a multicultural band using exotic instruments from around the world to create international melodies that stimulate the senses, igniting your spirit and making you feel good. The band was created by John Kruth and Jeff Greene. “Our music is ultimately about the cross-fertilization of musical idioms. Between our travels and life in New York City, we get to witness, first-hand, all the wonderful ways in which the world’s cultures combine with American traditions to create new musical forms and expressions,” states Jeff Greene. “At the end of the day, our sound and ethos derive from one simple construct: just play the music you haven’t heard yet,” John Kruth said. Kruth began writing and arranging most of the music from the second album on.

      The band members play multiple instruments, mostly self-taught like the mandolin, flute, keyboard, banjo, sitar, harmonica, and various horns. The music makes you feel jazz, folk, rock, orchestra improvisational, and you begin to groove into an ethereal existence. Like Kruth said, “The Angels don’t care where the instrument comes from, as long as you play with love. I saw the power of music when I was a kid. Music played a huge role in Civil Rights, It’s like creating a dialogue or speaking a language.”

      Kruth refers to his writing as an organic process. “They write it out, I just sit there and say this is how it goes. The greatest, most important thing of the 20th century was Black Music, said Kruth about other cultures that inspire the sound of TriBeCaStan. Louie Armstrong, Jimi Hendrix, Little Richard, Aretha Franklin. How do you get that kind of feeling in the music?” Kruth is influenced by blues, Moroccan music, country music, and Eastern European folk music. Throw in some jazz, rock, psychedelia and you have TriBeCaStan. His music palate is integrated by the world he lives in. John Kruth lives in the world of music and he feels the vibrations of sound. Fortunately for us, John has the ability to speak in the universal language of music.

      “It is like the soundtrack to some surreal travelogue. Everyone’s got a different orientation, and that’s what makes this stew of TriBeCaStan its own uniquely flavorful experience. This is the music of the melting pot,” states John Kruth.

      The New York Times describes TriBeCaStan’s sound as “genre-bending jazz and world-music” and The Washington Post hails them as “an international jazz and folk festival unto itself, fusing Balkan, Middle Eastern, Indian, Latin American, and African musical elements to bold and dazzling effect”. According to The Village Voice, the band embodies “New York cool, explorer energy, and outer space vibes.”

      “While nailing down the multifarious culture of TriBeCaStan might be challenging (especially since the band purposefully aims to tear down the barriers between American music, world, and jazz), the final result is a virtuosic and exuberant collaboration between some of New York’s finest jazz and world musicians—many of whom have played and collaborated with legendary innovators, including Ornette Coleman, Mahavishnu Orchestra, Sting, Carlos Santana, Violent Femmes, John Corigliano, James Brown, Taj Mahal, Willy DeVille, and Eddie Harris.” TriBeCaStan’s Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/tribecastan/

      Although Jeff Greene and John Kruth performed a reunion duo tour in Italy and Hungary two years ago there are no current plans for TriBeCaStan’s future. 

“Even the name ‘TriBeCaStan’ is meant to evoke an imaginary republic, defined by New York cool,

explorer energy, and outer space vibes.” – Village Voice

John Kruth (Mandolin, Mandocello, Flutes, Banjo, Portuguese Guitar, Harmonica, Sitar); Jeff Greene (Yayli Tambur, Ukulele, Marimba, Double Flutes); Kenny Margolis (Accordion, Organ); Ray Peterson (Bass); Claire Daly (Baritone Sax, Flute); Chris Morrow (Trombone); John Turner (Trumpet); Boris Kinberg (Percussion, Drums); Premik Russell Tubbs (Alto Sax, Flutes, Lap Steel Guitar) Kirk Driscoll  (drums)

“Zappa-esque….genre-bending jazz and world-music” – The New York Times

TriBeCaStan – “Auto Rickshaw” (Live at The Rubin Museum)

  

“An international jazz and folk festival unto itself, fusing Balkan, Middle Eastern, Indian, Latin American, and African musical elements to bold and dazzling effect.” – The Washington Post

John Kruth with John Sebastian and Maria Muldaur in Washington Square, 2005

When in doubt go back to Washington Square!

TriBeCaStan - Dance Of The Terrible Bear
(Official Music Video)

Nailing down the multifarious culture of TriBeCaStan or even getting it to hold still for half a second is a tall order. Kruth and Greene have purposefully aimed to tear down the clichéd boundaries between world, folk, and jazz and reject all genres as adequate definitions.” – The Huffington Post

John Moved to Milwaukee, Opening For 
Clarence ‘Gatemouth’ Brown and Rick Danko of The Band

Larry Baumhor: John, what year did you move to Milwaukee?

John Kruth: “I moved there in November 1986. I had gone to visit and record with the Violent Femmes earlier in the year for my first album “Midnight Snack” which features the three original members.      
      “Maybe that’s why I moved to Milwaukee. After living in New York for nearly nine years Marie wanted out. There was a good music scene at the time. MTV called Milwaukee ‘America’s Liverpool.’ I wrote poetry, played the mandolin and hung out with the Violent Femmes.
      “Or maybe I’d actually moved to Milwaukee to meet the legendary Texas blues guitarist, Clarence Gatemouth Brown. One Thursday night I got a call to open for him at a little South-side joint called the Odd Rock Café. Gate was a good-natured dude who perpetually puffed on a carved briar pipe filled with his special blend of tobacco, hashish, and pot.
      “That night after the gig we all hung out in his tour bus, passing the pipe around, sipping cheap burgundy and sharing stories. On my way out, Gate told me that I was welcome to sit in with him anytime, which I soon did, in Madison, Chicago, and New York, but best of all in Austin, at the legendary Antones, before it became a CVS. Brown and his band, the Express, were laying down a tasty gumbo of blues, Cajun and swing numbers when I sidled up to the stage with my mandolin.” (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth)

      “Three years later, on a cold February night in Milwaukee, I stopped by a little neighborhood bar on Brady Street called Harpo’s to read some poems to the music of a band called Le Noisemakers from Hell. The Noisemakers consisted of the Violent Femmes’ rhythm section, Brian Ritchie on bass and drummer Victor DeLorenzo along with a garden variety of musical luminaries and local lunatics. Following our set and a couple of stout, I headed out the door towards home when a Buick came swerving down Brady Street and up over the sidewalk, pinning me against the bar’s brick wall. At first, I thought it must have been some ‘friend’ trying to scare the hell out of me. But a moment later the guy in the passenger seat reached out and stuck a .38 against my liver and commanded me to hand over my wallet, which I did with no hesitation. The problem was that I only had eleven bucks. 

      “‘Listen, you got the wrong guy,’ I stuttered. ‘I’m just a poet.’

      “‘Shut the fuck up,’ the guy said, shoving the gun in my gut.  

      “‘Go ahead - Do it, do it, do it!’ the driver giggled fiendishly. 

      “Just then, the giggling sadist driver, impatient with his friend’s incompetence, stomped on the gas pedal and they disappeared into the night. But not before I got their license plate number - JKL - 619 JKL? That must stand for John Kruth Lives! And 619? – Hey, that’s the month and day of my birth!

      “With my heart pounding, I stumbled back into the bar in a daze to call the cops. Big Bob, the bouncer took one look at me and said, ‘Hey Kruth, what happened to you? You look like you saw a ghost.’ (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth)

Larry Baumhor: John, did you perform with Rick Danko or did you open for him in Milwaukee?

John Kruth: “I opened for Rick at a place called Shank Hall in Milwaukee. After my set he called me up to play with him, having liked my mandolin playing and harmonica. This was often the case and happened with John Prine, Gatemouth Brown and others.     
      “A minute later I was relieved when a gaggle of locals who had just been to the show arrived on the scene. And Danko, party animal and generous spirit that he was, begged everybody to sit down and join the banquet. After all, he’d already ordered enough food for the entire crew. ‘Say hon…,’ he called to the waitress delivering the first installment, ‘Better bring a couple more chocolate malts and some coffee. We’re gonna need some coffee!’

      “Once assembled, Rick began to hold court to the delight and awe of everyone present, telling stories about The Band in the old days back in Canada. Recalling adventures with Dylan and John Lennon, without ever missing a mouthful. As the night wore on, everybody eventually bid us goodnight until we found ourselves sitting at a big empty table that resembled a demolition site. 

      “As I drove him back to his hotel, Rick suggested we stop by my pad for a nightcap. Feeling a bit embarrassed I explained that I had recently left my wife and was in a period of transition, and that all my books, records and instruments were piled nearly to the ceiling and there was barely enough room for a chair and table and the mattress on the floor. Of course, he couldn’t care less and I felt kind of stupid for making apologies. A few minutes later he rolled and lit a fat spliff as we polished off the last of a bottle of Southern Comfort I had lying around. 

      “After stubbing out the roach Rick noticed an old fiddle hanging on my wall. He sprang to his feet, grabbed the bow and began sawing a scratchy Cajun tune. It was nearly a quarter of four in the morning when he started stomping his big floppy boot on the floor, as he played the violin. There before me stood Crazy Chester who had, after all these years, finally caught up with me in what was certain to be a thick and terrible fog.” (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth) 

      “‘Uh, Rick…’ I said hesitantly. ‘I don’t wanna be a drag but it’s nearly 4 AM and my neighbors ain’t gonna go for this.’ A moment later there was a knock at the door. I opened it a crack and peeked out. It was Robin from across the hall, one of the brides of Buddha, bleary-eyed and yawning, standing barefoot and disheveled in her nightshirt.
      “‘Hey John, what’s goin’ on?’
      “‘Sorry darlin’, I said, ‘But y’know who’s in here making that racket? It’s Rick Danko from The Band!’
      “‘Really!’ she said, immediately perking up. ‘Can I come in?’   
      “‘Lemme check,’ I said and closed the door a moment and explained the scene to Mr. Danko who immediately said, ‘Sure! Let her in!’ and went back to scratchin’ fiddle. Robin took her place on the edge of the mattress, wrapping her arms around her bare knees, and lookin’ up at Rick… delighted. A minute later there was another knock. It was Joan from downstairs. I apologized again and explained that Danko was inside on a non-stop bender and it was better to join us than fight us. And so it went. Another knock, another divorcee wrested from her bed at an ungodly hour by our caterwauling. The room soon began to fill up until it resembled that scene from A Night At The Opera where the Marx Brothers were stowaways on a ship and one by one, a tray-toting waiter, a couple of repairmen, and the manicurist all arrived, squeezing into that tiny cabin. I expected at any moment someone would come along, pull my door open and we’d all tumble out into the hall.” (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth) 

Opened A Show For John Prine

      “Not long after crossing paths with Rick Danko, I opened a show for John Prine at the Avalon Theater, an old movie palace on the South-side of Milwaukee. Following the show, we headed over to the Hilton, where John had a room. A small entourage gathered around him in the hotel bar. Suddenly out of the corner of his eye, Prine spied Joan Jett sashaying into the bar with a handful of friends. I wished I had a camera! What an incredible cross-section of America – John Prine, Joan Jett, and Hulk Hogan. Prine turned to me and said, ‘Hey John, who is that?!’ ‘That’s Joan Jett, man!’ I replied. ‘Y’know… ‘I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll!” A moment later she comes slinkin’ up to the bar, all in black leather and orders a drink, something sparkly and red. John clears his throat, cocks his head, squinted at her and took his shot.” (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth)

      “The next day we headed north to Oshkosh, (the town that became famous for making overalls) where we played the Oshkosh Grand Opera House… just the three of us… Prine, me and his road manager/ chauffeur at the wheel of a shiny black Lincoln Towne Car. At one point, I asked John if he would listen to a couple of tunes from my first album that was about to come out. ‘Uh, sure,’ he said hesitantly and lit a cigarette and popped the tape into the cassette player in the dashboard. He listened attentively for a few songs as the music and smoke filled the car. Suddenly Prine turned the music down and gave me a few simple words of advice: ‘John,’ he said, in his rusty door-hinge of a voice, ‘Ya gotta keep it simple or you’re gonna lose ‘em. You got too much on there. There are enough ideas in one of your songs for a whole album. [Hell, I took that as a compliment!] And it seems like you sing a lotta songs about crazy people. You better watch out or nothin’ but crazy folks are gonna come to your shows. You’ll lookout in the crowd and that’s all you’ll see – crazy people.’ 

      “‘Well you sing ‘Sam Stone’ and when I look out at your audience I mostly see Vietnam vets, alkies and chain-smokers,’ I countered.    

      “‘Yeah, I taught ‘em all that,’ John said proudly.” (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth)

John Kruth & John Prine, early 1990s

The Madman of the Mandolin. – San Francisco Weekly

A one-man hootenanny trail blazing new genres. Kruth shows us just how hard a mandolin can rock. A fascinating argument for the mandolin as a prime tool of rock and roll. – The Milwaukee Journal

Ravi Shankar In Milwaukee

Larry Baumhor: John, how and where did you meet Ravi Shankar?

John Kruth: “I met Ravi Shankar backstage at the Pabst Theater in Milwaukee and was invited out to a nice Indian restaurant with his entourage. All I can recall is that I was very nervous at first thinking this would be some kind of heavy, mystical experience. But for the most part, he was making jokes and puns and laughing tee hee hee in a funny high-pitched voice. I spoke to him mostly about playing mandolin and how their Carnatic style mandolin playing was becoming more popular in America thanks to U Shrinivas, the one-time Adorable Child Prodigy, who I later met in NYC. I went to Chennai, India and played with his brother U Rajesh.”

John Kruth & Ravi Shankar, 1990s

As A Musician, I’ve Brought Misery to The Women In My Life

      “I met Robin Kornman around 1995 at the Shambala Temple in Milwaukee. We all lived on the East side of Milwaukee. ‘I see you have developed a very interesting technique for cleansing your mind,’ he said one day while I was on my way out the door. ‘Oh yeah, you mean my tears. Well, I’m breaking up with my beautiful girlfriend of eight years,’ I replied. ‘Why’s that?’ Robin asked. ‘Well, I’m a musician,’ I said. ‘And although my music brings joy to some, the musician’s life has brought nothing but misery to the women in my life… particularly my girlfriend and my mother. So, I’m thinking about giving up music altogether.’ ‘Look, I know who you are,’ Robin said firmly. ‘You’re a good musician. You can’t give up music. You just need a new mother and a new girlfriend,’ he said, with a bubbly laugh. At that moment the emergency brake holding the car that had been parked on my chest for the last few months suddenly was released and began to roll backward over a cliff and into the sea. I immediately felt much lighter, thanks to Robin’s sage advice. 

      “Robin and I became fast friends. He loved music, mostly classical and some jazz and we spent many afternoons at his cozy East-side home listening to records on his fabulous stereo, while I steered him through the choppy waters of Ornette Coleman’s free jazz, and Charles Mingus’ tempestuous gospel-bop. I had to reach deep to find the concise words to describe how the ecstatic electric sting of Albert King’s ‘Crosscut Saw’ pierced my heart. I always felt the blues needed no explanation. But The Buddhist tradition of analysis and debate, which Robin whole-heartedly subscribed to, demanded otherwise.” (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth)

John Kruth Wrote The Music
To Seven Unpublished Woody Guthrie Lyrics

      “A few months later, Hal Willner called. He’d been working on a project on Woody Guthrie and invited me up to the House of Nyuk, his studio in Hell’s Kitchen to talk. Nyuk (named after Curly Howard’s unique laugh) is a small room stuffed to the gills with old records, CD’s books, magazines and puppets that Willner’s collected over the years. We sat down for a chat. Hal gave me the lowdown on the project and handed me a folder of lyrics written by Woody that were never recorded and had no previously-known melodies written to them. ‘See what you can come up with,’ he said in his coarse whisper of a voice. ‘And, uh, I wanna play something for you… a song by Woody that almost nobody’s ever heard, written towards the end of his life. It’s pretty depressing.’ 

      “That was an understatement. The tune, a tirade about the evils of New York was seriously dark, the flipside of ‘This Land is Your Land.’ Hal waited for the song to end. He knew it was powerful stuff and anyone familiar with Guthrie was sure to be taken aback by its agonizing lyrics. 

      “‘Dylan was just here, about half an hour ago,’ Willner said. “‘He told me that if I release it he wouldn’t have anything to do with the project. What do you think?’

      “If there’s one thing I learned from working with Joel Dorn (Hal’s friend and mentor) or playing in bands with anyone from Violent Femmes to Sam Shepard, it’s to be honest at all cost. No matter how strong the personality, tell them what you think, truthfully, even if it costs you the gig (which in more than a few cases, it has) or what’s the point? As Texas songwriter Guy Clark used to ask, ‘How close to the bone can you cut it?’ Although that might sound like some sort of macho dare, it’s about making art. If it’s a job you want, look in the classifieds.

      “‘I love him, but fuck Dylan,’ I said. ‘People should know how Woody really felt at the end of his life. If he was bitter and disillusioned, you’re not doing anybody any favors by keeping it in the dark.’ Then I looked around Willner’s cramped studio again. 
      “‘Hey Hal, just one thing I gotta know…’ 

      “‘What’s that?’

      “‘There’s only two chairs here. Which one did Bob sit in?’

      “‘That one, the one you’re sittin’ in. Why?’

      “‘Oh, no reason,’ I said and went home and immediately wrote seven tunes to Woody’s lyrics. Dancing with Guthrie’s poetry had an almost psycho-active effect on the brain. The words inspired simple melodies that seemed to manifest the moment I picked up my guitar. But sadly the project fell through due to egos, wives, and managers (none of which had to do with Willner).” (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth)

Bob Dylan – Song To Woody

The Traveling Troubadour

John Kruth: “I was in NYC until 1973. Then I moved to Minneapolis. Then to New England, including Boston, Maine, and Vermont until 1977, and back to Minneapolis. Then to Berlin, Germany late 1978 into 1979. Moved on to Woodstock, NY. Began playing in NYC and moved there until 1986. Then I moved to Milwaukee until 1995. I ended up in San Francisco where I recorded an Electric Chairmen album called ‘Toast With Members of Camper Van Beethoven.’ I went to LA briefly. I moved back to NYC because I couldn’t find work in LA and my mom was sick. Soon after I met the love of my life, Marilyn Cvitanic in August 1996. I stayed in NYC and played Carnegie Hall that November.”

      Kruth traveled and performed abroad and had some wild experiences in Hungary, Siberia, Spain, Morocco, the Czech Republic, the Netherlands, Russia, England, Germany and India.

JOHN KRUTH: COULDN’T GET TO SLEEP 

BOMBAY

      “In Bombay the Maharaji and his army of ‘orange men’ built and operate two kitchens that provide 75,000 school children with a delicious, nutritious lunch, that they deliver, piping hot, in a brigade of vans, five days a week. Then there’s an orphanage for fifty boys, attached to an organic farm where I played the flute for the kids and serenaded a dozen or so of the most beautiful white Brahmin cows I’d seen it while in India. The entire farm and orphanage along with a string of buildings that house the families that work there runs off of dried cow dung, which I later learned comprised the ‘adobe’ walls of the Maharaji’s room. ‘It keeps the walls cool and the mosquitoes away,’ he pointed out. And contrary to what your mom might have told you, cow shit, at least this cow shit, has no odor!” (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth)

ORNETTE COLEMAN’S MANHATTAN LOFT INTERVIEW

Larry Baumhor: John, can you tell me about the experience of playing with Ornate Coleman? How was the music? How did you feel? Were you nervous? What was the attitude like? Did Ornette give any advice? Did you play any of his songs or did you just freelance? What instrument did he play? Any recordings of it?

John Kruth: “Ornette would pull you into his sphere of energy, intelligence, and instinct. He’d say let’s play, and start to blow. Sitting directly in front of his horn, not hearing it from the audience, or on a record where so much is lost in the translation, but right in front of it, was such an exhilarating experience. Like standing under a waterfall, the notes just rush over you. You don’t have time to be nervous or second guess yourself. You just dive in, put yourself completely into it and play for keeps. I loved Ornette and felt that it was one of the greatest gifts in my life that the universe brought me into his sphere. It’s recorded but I can’t release  any of it. His son Denard would sue me.”

Your tone sounds like flesh and blood. You didn’t choose the mandolin.
It chose you to play its eternal melodies through. – Ornette Coleman (June 2009)

      “Visiting Ornette Coleman’s midtown Manhattan loft was always a fantastic experience and not for the obvious reasons. He had a pool table and before anything else could take place you had to oblige him to shoot a few rounds. Coleman was a tricky fellow, while always a gentleman, he was something of a hustler too. He’d smile sweetly and nod his head gently, approving as you took your shot. But eventually, his congenial façade would give way and at some point, he’d start to mop the floor with you, winning one game after the next, while acting surprised the entire time, wondering where that ‘lucky shot’ came from. Ornette, I later learned, had been something of a pool shark back in his hometown in Fort Worth, Texas.

      “Although I once met him walking down Broadway in Soho, immaculately dressed and wandering alone, it wasn’t until November 8, 2006, that I formally interviewed Ornette for the first time. We sat in his large open loft, which was sparsely decorated with colorful African tapestries and the Dorothy Baer painting of the man with two faces that adorned the cover of Coleman’s 1977 release Dancing in Your Head. Also, hard to miss was a pair of life-size portraits of Geronimo (which he claimed inspired him through his many years of struggle as a misunderstood musician). There was also a wall-sized print of Eddie Adams’ disturbing photograph of a South Vietnamese police chief executing a member of the Vietcong. ‘Look,’ Ornette said gently, pointing at the image of Lt. Colonel Nguyen Ngoc Loan firing the pistol, ‘he smiled when he did it!’” (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth)

      “Coleman spoke thoughtfully, barely whispering at times. He was at once gentle and warm-hearted and, a bit heady to say the least. Between the metaphysics and metaphors, the air grew a bit thin as we ascended the dizzying heights of his Harmolodic theory and unraveled the riddle of existence. I soon found Ornette didn’t stay on track with too many of the questions I threw him but used them to steer the conversation to the theories he continually wrestled with.

      “‘What is sound?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘It’s not air. It’s a sound! There’s no definition for it. It’s something that you bump into and then hear. Some force has got to stop it before it makes a sound. It’s the closest thing to what we believe in when we say God. It’s the closest evidence of God. You can’t see it. You can’t destroy it. It destroys itself when it leaves and becomes something else. Let’s put it this way, most people look for and try to relate to truth in their environment. So, the most true and advanced thing that I can think of is to open more eternity for humanity.’” (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth)

      “‘Yeah, Ornette, beautiful!’ I said, doing my best to hang on…

      “‘The thing that I’m trying to do is find the note that made the key. And the note that made the key doesn’t exist because it’s sound. Creativity does not need matter. But matter needs creativity. Now those are some pretty intellectual words. Whatever knowledge is, it is not something to discuss. It’s gotta be a concrete belief. So, the best thing to do is to be as human as you can.’

      “‘I’m tryin’ my best, Ornette...’

      “‘Y’know improvising is really about playing ideas, and ideas don’t have any parents. What is an idea but an idea? The idea can inspire or challenge. Sound is eternal, but the name of the note is not the sound. It’s just a title, like my name doesn’t make me another race. It’s kind of like that. I guess every sound has a meaning. This morning I got up and started workin’ the sound in my horn and I realized that sound is not only invisible, but it doesn’t stand still and when it moves, it picks up on other sounds. Now when I pick up an instrument I don’t even think about the instrument. I just think what is it that I could possibly bring out of it? It has nothing to do with if you can read or write or what key you like, or what’s your favorite song. All of that is good knowledge, but sound, sound is God-given that’s all that I can say. But sometimes when you play your instrument it doesn’t sound like a sound. It sounds human. But not human-like what language you speak or how you look at where you come from. It’s not like that. The human is more alive from outside in than it is from inside out. You see, sound doesn’t take the form of a note. It takes the form of a meaning. But imagine, the word ‘life’ doesn’t really tell you what it is... We’re just in this form and can’t nobody touch the sky! I mean if there’s anything eternal, it’s got to be the sky. The sky don’t have no roof! But so much is still unknown. I don’t go around trying to explain it to people. You can’t prove anything to the world.’ 

      “‘You keep talkin’ like that Ornette, and somebody’s gonna make you a guru!’ I said.

      “‘A guru?’ he laughed. ‘I guess that would make me ‘Guru Doo Doo!’” (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth)

      “Following lunch, we shot some pool and listened to some more music. He asked me to bring him some of mine the next time I came over. And he meant it. On the third TriBeCaStan album, New Deli we cut a medley of two of his songs, “Dee Dee,” (from his December 1965 recording At the Golden Circle – Volume One) strung together with “Theme from a Symphony” (from Dancing in Your Head). Ornette actually sat there, listening, not saying a word until the track had finished. 

      “‘Y’know you might think you’re leading the band,” he laughed. ‘But I’d say the bass player [Dave Dreiwitz of Ween] is doin’ a good job! And that drummer [Todd Isler] plays with a lot of emotion!’ 

      “Then he just about reduced me to tears: ‘You might think you chose the mandolin,’ Ornette said, his eyes squinting like a Chinese sage. ‘But the mandolin chose you to sing its ancient melodies through.’ Then he invited me to bring my instrument to London in June, where he was curating the Meltdown Festival with Patti Smith, the Master Musicians of Jajouka, the Roots and Yoko Ono.” (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth)

      “Ornette rode the elevator down and stepped outside with me. Looking up at the clouds that hung heavy and grey above the buildings, he left me with one last thought, just in case I was starting to get a big head over everything that had just taken place. ‘Compared to the sky,’ he mused, ‘we’re not even ashes.’”

The Meltdown Festival With Patti Smith & Ornette Coleman

      “The Meltdown Festival was a well-named affair. I flew into London on June 17, (2009) unsure what the plan was, or if there had been one at all. The first night I went to the will call window and found a fifth-row center ticket waiting for me along with a backstage pass. Patti Smith joined Ornette and his band on stage. She was deep in shamanic mode, improvising a long poem about fire blazing from the bell of Ornette’s horn and spreading across the Texas prairie. Afterwards I found Ornette backstage, pensive, smiling quizzically, surrounded by a throng of hors d’oeuvre munching, wine swilling, loud chatting fans and friends. None of them seemed to have any clue what to say to the man who was at the heart of this fantastic event. (I witnessed a similar dynamic once before with William S. Burroughs, whom everyone was either too in awe of, or afraid to speak to. We wound up chatting about cats). Suddenly some soul-sucking jerk cornered Ornette and was telling him about a film he was making, and how Ornette had to do the soundtrack. Ornette looked tired, drained and was too polite to blow the guy off. I looked around but Coleman’s son, Denardo, who handled all of his affairs, was deep in schmooze mode. A moment later, I saw Bachir Attar of the Master Musicians of Jajouka, who was also playing the festival. ‘Quick,’ I said to Bachir, ‘we have to rescue Ornette from this vampire before he sinks another fang in his neck!’ Much to his amusement, we rushed up to Ornette and physically escorted him out of the room.” (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth) 

      “‘Are you going to play?’ Ornette asked me. 

      “‘Just tell me when and where and I’ll be there,’ I replied. 

      “‘You need to talk to Denardo,’ he said. 

      “‘Hmm, this is the first I’ve heard about this,’ Denardo grumbled. ‘We’re rehearsing tomorrow afternoon. You can come down then. What kind of equipment do you need?’

      “‘I got down to Royal Festival Hall the following afternoon and found, a nice Roland Jazz Chorus amp waiting for me. Ornette’s band, comprised of Denardo on drums and Al McDowell and Tony Falanga on electric and acoustic bass respectively, were planning on jamming a piece with Bachir and the Master Musicians. 

      “Attar soon arrived in a bad mood, disgruntled over business and housing arrangements. The band began to jam on a 6/8 jazz/waltz reminiscent of Miles Davis’ ‘All Blues’ which eventually morphed into some kind of harmolodic funk, when in walked Flea of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, who plugged his bass into an enormous Sunn amp, of the likes that John Entwistle of The Who used to play. 

      “I had met Flea years ago while on tour with Violent Femmes. As the bottom-end was already well covered by a pair of brilliant bassists, Flea seemed momentarily at a loss as to what to do. ‘Just play the one,’ I suggested, ‘Nobody else is!’ And everything was cool… well sort of… Other than Ornette not showing up for the rehearsal and when the Masters began to play with Coleman’s band, it was a total train wreck, and not the good kind. 

      “In the midst of this chaos, the innovative guitarist Bill Frissell entered, smiling. Bill took one look at the blonde electric Rickenbacker mandolin I was playing and said, ‘Where did you get that?’” (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth)

In New York Where Ornette Coleman Plays With John Kruth

      “Back in New York again, I was feeling the creative spark and began calling a variety of musicians to see who was game to come to the over and jam at the TriBeCaStan clubhouse, which overlooked the Hudson River. It was a large, beautiful space, that beyond regular rehearsals had been the scene of a couple great parties.  

      “‘When’s the gig? Where is it? How much does it pay?’ was the predictable response. 

      “‘No gig, but we have this great room, with a P.A., amps, and drums all set up and I thought it might be great to just get together and kick some ideas around, see what comes up’ was my reply. 

      “‘Uh, well, yeah, maybe another time,’ was the unanimous answer. It turned out that nobody was interested in or had the time to play just for the sake of playing. So, I began calling everyone I knew. I felt as if I was taking a survey, repeatedly receiving the same answer. After about twenty or so musicians, I called the greatest musician I knew, Ornette Coleman.

      “‘Is it for the spirit? Or is it for the purse?’ he begged in a soft voice.

      “‘It’s definitely for the spirit,’ I replied.

      “‘Good!’ Ornette said. ‘How’s two o’clock?’ (Unpublished memoir by John Kruth)

Ornette Coleman, John Kruth, Claire Daly