Brian Lovely
Vivid Puzzles
by Anil Prasad
Copyright © 2024 Anil Prasad.

Photo: Michael Wilson

For guitarist, singer-songwriter, and producer Brian Lovely, creative outcomes are the priority. The modern world of streaming metrics, social media validation, and big music industry manipulation sits deeply in the background for the Cincinnati-based musician. Lovely is vastly more interested in igniting his inner passions, and those of the musicians he collaborates with, and mirroring them across recordings and performances.

Without question, Lovely is one of Cincinnati’s core musical luminaries. He’s revered across the city and the extended Ohio and Kentucky region by artists and listeners alike. Flying Underground, his band featuring vocalist Kelly McCracken, bassist Dave Ramos, and drummer Brian Malone, underlines that status. The group, which delivers smart, mercurial power pop, has existed in several forms since 1998. However, its current incarnation is a departure from its predecessors, with recently-written repertoire unique to it. It has established itself as a mainstay of the Cincinnati scene with its inventive and provocative songs, captured on its 2023 debut self-titled album and the 2017 EP Death of Stars.

Lovely is involved in two other key groups, as well. He’s part of Faux Frenchmen, with bassist Don Aren, guitarist George Cunningham, and violinist Paul Patterson. The band, first formed in 2002, reinvigorates and reimagines the Hot Club gypsy jazz of Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli for a new generation. Faux Frenchmen perform covers by the duo, as well as new material inspired by the genre, which can be heard across four recordings.

Since 2011, Lovely has also served as lead guitarist and musical director for Blessid Union of Souls, the Cincinnati alternative rock institution responsible for a series of hit albums and singles. Lovely played most of the guitars and co-wrote several songs for the band’s 1999 gold LP Walking Off the Buzz and produced its 2015 CD/DVD release Live at Never on Sunday.

Lovely’s other session work has made significant impact, too. He handled guitar and bass duties on two platinum efforts, including Saving Jane’s 2006 LP Girl Next Door and Frickin’ A’s 2004 single “Jesse’s Girl.” In addition, he’s produced albums for acclaimed singer-songwriters, including Greg Mahan’s Thirty-Five Cent Daydream, Ramsey’s Heaven’s Dark Corners, and Benj Clarke’s Out Through the In Crowd. Lovely also produced several songs for Joe Jordan’s forthcoming album on Atlantic Records. He’s now wrapping up production for the debut LP by Sharna Pax, a Cincinnati rock act known for razor-sharp observational songs, led by multi-instrumentalist Peter Obermark.

“It’s impossible to overstate Brian’s presence and the impact he has on the regional music scene,” said Obermark. “I don’t know anyone who commands more respect—and even awe—from his musical peers. When Brian plays a gig, the audience is usually liberally salted with A-list local musicians, who as a rule are very hard to impress. They come to watch him work his magic. He’s one of few who moves effortlessly across genres, from rock and Americana, to jazz and classical, with some Broadway show tunes and cartoon theme songs thrown in for good measure. He has an amazingly eclectic range of intellectual passions. I suspect that’s part of what makes him such a great lyricist. His songs reflect the sly melding of literary, artistic, and philosophical allusions with honest emotion and an absence of self-deceit.”

In 1992, Lovely was part of Adrian Belew’s band, and toured North America in support of the former King Crimson frontman’s album Inner Revolution. The band also featured guitarist and vocalist Rob Fetters, a fellow Cincinnati mainstay. It was a major step forward that created significant momentum for Lovely’s career.

“I couldn’t have a closer friend as a guitarist than Brian,” said Fetters. “He’s got the chops. He can play anything he wants to play. His technical abilities and knowledge of music are incredible. He’s an encyclopedia of music. He knows so much about so many genres and elements of music. I’ve worked with him in so many contexts. We’ve toured together, put bands together, and collaborated on songs. He always takes care of business in a wonderfully professional way, with no drama. He’s an A-List VIP in any context he’s in. And I learn a lot from being around him—not just about music, but because he understands so many other art forms, including literature, and visual and culinary arts. Brian is also tenacious. He digs in. He’s committed. He’s never trying to get something out of someone in a negative way. He’s driven, but not for fame or fortune. His focus is on quality. His belief is, if you take care of that, positive stuff will follow. I have an incredible amount of respect for him.”

Innerviews met Lovely at the Paulista Café in Oakland, Calif. for a three-hour conversation, following a San Francisco Bay Area Faux Frenchmen gig. He opened up on the vast expanse of his career, including a significant curveball the universe threw at him, the value of community, and staying true to his instincts.

Flying Underground, 2024: Dave Ramos, Brian Malone, Brian Lovely, and Kelly McCracken | Photo: Michael Wilson

Flying Underground goes back more than a quarter century. Discuss the journey you’ve gone on with the group.

Brian Lovely and The Secret was my band through the ‘80s into the mid-‘90s. It had a few incarnations, but its peak was when C.C. Thomas and Teddy Wilburn were in it during the mid-‘90s. We were fairly-well known regionally and put out a record called Psst in 1995. And like any good band at its height of success, we decided to break up. [laughs] C.C. moved to Los Angeles and went on to play with Diana Ross and serve as her musical director. Teddy and I stayed in Cincinnati.

For the next few years, I focused on songwriting and getting my production chops up. I was starting to do more recording for other people, but I also had continued writing lots of songs, so I put together the first incarnation of Flying Underground around 1998. Within a year, Dave Ramos joined on bass and Chris Arduser joined on drums. The idea was that we’d mainly play my songs, but we did some of Chris’ songs, too.

So, that went on into the early 2000s. In 2002, my son was born. I continued with Flying Underground and also did some touring as a solo act opening for The Bears who had reunited.

In 2003, Faux Frenchmen got together, and I focused on that, with Flying Underground sort of floating around and languishing for a while. I also pursued a master's degree in jazz studies from The University of Cincinnati College Conservatory of Music and that took up some time.

Flying Underground started to reemerge between 2005-2010 and we played live more. I was the singer. I’ve always been the singer of my stuff.

By the time we get to 2012, I had started teaching audio production at Raymond Walters College in Cincinnati as well as starting a jazz major program at The College of Mount Saint Joe.

In 2014, I was a year-and-a-half into teaching, playing with Flying Underground, Faux Frenchmen, doing jazz gigs, and production work, and suddenly, I started to lose my voice.

It took a year to figure out what was going on. It turned out to be spasmodic dysphonia. It falls under the umbrella of neuromuscular afflictions in the Parkinsonian column. There's a little history of that on my dad's side. That’s probably where it comes from, triggered by stress or who knows what. I was under a fair amount of stress. And I haven't always been good at knowing when I'm under stress. It might be because I kind of enjoy it. So, I had to stop teaching. But I was lucky in that I was still able to go back to being a freelance musician and producer on a full-time basis.

It was a huge moment in my life and a major challenge. It was like God did a bong hit and was messing with me. I thought “What do I have? Why? So, I can’t talk? There’s no cure?” No, there are only treatments, which involve Botox injections directly into the vocal folds. They can create a sort of sweet spot in which you can talk.

I realize that people who get this that have to talk for a living really suffer. At my root, I am a guitar player. So, I went back to being a gun for hire and producing artists, which was all doable with this.

Eventually, I got fed up with the Botox stuff. It was unpredictable. I started to isolate myself. It’s a weird affliction because sometimes I could talk and sometimes I couldn’t. Even when trying to sing, I might be able to do a falsetto voice, because it involves a different neural pathway. But the pathway that was labeled “Brian Street” was completely fucked up.

I made an existential decision to be the quiet guy. I decided I was going to be the guy who doesn’t talk and see what happens. I did a lot of vocal training as well, but eventually, I decided to start over and limit my speech to things like “good morning,” “hello,” “goodbye,” and “I love you.” Around a year later, I was able to start talking more fluidly. After making a conscious decision to shut up, I somehow figured out how to talk again.

I can’t tell at all that you have an issue, so things must have improved.

That's because it’s relatively quiet here. Apparently, I’ve retrained my brain, which is a method discussed in the subculture of spasmodic dysphonia. I’ve tried to help and mentor others into figuring out how to talk again that have this condition.

You can use any framework of language you want, but I made a conscious decision to hand things over to—let’s say God—because that’s an easy word. I’m not a conventionally religious person. But I thought, “Let whatever’s going to happen, happen. Stop forcing it.” And apparently, I have just enough of a disagreeable temperament to not give a shit if people notice I’m not talking. I learned to be okay with silence, both in direct interactions and in groups. And now, somehow, I can talk again and am okay with where things are.

You rebooted Flying Underground in 2016 with Kelly McCracken as lead vocalist. Explore that decision and the positive outcomes that resulted.

My affliction doesn’t necessarily prevent me from singing, but my voice was all torn up and weak during that period. So, I decided, “I’m going to get a singer.” It didn’t matter to me if it was a man or woman. My natural inclination was to get a male singer, and I almost went with a vocalist who was named, believe it or not, Brian Love. Now, that would have been hilarious. [laughs]

Brian has a big voice and is a great personality. He would have been a great pick. He played with us for a little while, but then he chose to move away from Cincinnati. So, I had to find someone else, but I couldn’t think of anyone else in the Cincinnati area who would work.

I went online every night and went through many websites and pages with people looking to join bands. You can imagine how fun that was. But I kept at it. I had made up my mind—“I’m going to do this.” And eventually, there was Kelly. I was like, “Who’s this?” She had been in a band in Warren, Ohio, where she’s from, called The Kellys. They had some recordings and videos out and I thought, “Yeah, she sounds great.” And then I discovered she had moved to the Cincinnati area, so I sent her an email, and she came and met me at a Faux Frenchmen gig at Sitwell’s Coffee House. And then we were off to the races.

Kelly has such a powerful and expressive voice. We also discussed in detail the approach she would take to the songs I’ve written. My lyrics aren’t always highly emotional, but they can be emphatic in their perspective. I wanted Kelly to communicate aggressively where necessary, but also with a sense of wonder where appropriate. So, there was a process of discussing which colors to work with. She was willing to indulge me from the very start, which I’m tremendously grateful for. We work together so well and became such good friends.

I’m also very grateful to the other guys in the band. They also do what I ask them for, although that’s not always the starting point. Sometimes I’ll write a tune, and it arranges itself after the band members make comments and add their perspectives to it. I’m usually the decision-maker at the end and sort of say “Well, I don’t want to do this” or “Let’s do this.”

Photo: Gary Mitchell

Talk about the progression that occurred between the 2017 Death of Stars EP and the 2023 self-titled album.

Death of Stars definitely has an urgency and freshness to it. Kelly and I were writing and playing together for the first time. We wrote the title track together and It’s really its own thing.

Our sound and approach were starting to come together and then the pandemic hit, and everything went to shit. Kelly and I still got together to work on music. Wednesdays became the day we got together. We’d play songs and post them to YouTube. It was all very informal and lo-fi. We just wanted to keep the thing alive. And finally, we all emerged from the pandemic a couple of years later and the band picked up where it left off.

We put out a couple of singles as COVID-19 wound down. In the meantime, we had all these other songs building up. We decided instead of recording them right after the pandemic, that we’d play them live for a while. We wanted to see how they resonated with audiences and in the process became a tight band. During that period, Chris Arduser departed, and Brian Malone joined on drums.

Eventually, we started recording the album last year. In fact, there are two records worth of songs, but I decided to go with 10, including one live track.

The collaboration with Kelly continued productively. Typically, I’d write a song and play it for her, and she’d make suggestions and change the melody to something that suits her more. She and I co-wrote "Wim Hoff," "Mixtape," and "Kameo."

There was a real “get it done” mentality from everyone when making the album. Everyone was so committed and really enjoyed the process. So, we cranked it out and Flying Underground continues as a priority.

Let’s dig into a few songs from the Flying Underground repertoire, starting with “False Flag.”

Donald Trump having been elected in 2016 had me in a relatively inflamed mode. I’m a cranky independent and always have been, but he often portrays the world in ways that it actually isn’t. So, this song was a reaction to that, as well as how perspectives are affected by Internet-based disinformation. Essentially, it’s a song about lying.

You sing lead vocals on “Newport Rise.” Tell me about reemerging on that front and what the song examines.

I’ve been able to sing again for many years, though my range is lower. Kelly’s the singer in the band, but it was satisfying to take on this one vocal, particularly given how it came together.

I’ve always been enamored with the unconscious and its role in aesthetics and creativity. The process is really fascinating to me. I’ve always been drawn to the beat poets and how their influence manifested through Bob Dylan, John Lennon, Syd Barrett, and Robyn Hitchcock. I’m drawn to these people because they’re vivid puzzles in and of themselves. When you listen to them, you think “What do they mean? Where did this stuff come from?”

So, I do a lot of automatic writing as a lyricist, using some of the models Natalie Goldberg, Jack Kerouac, and William Burroughs came up with, and their processes about how to capture initial thoughts. And that’s how “Newport Rise” came about. I went to the fireplace, started picking up newspapers and magazines, and went through them looking for phrases I like the sound of, and then cutting them out.

I then took those pieces of paper and threw them in a bag and set it aside. One day, Flying Underground went over to Newport, Kentucky, to do a photo shoot. It was a fun day and Newport’s a really interesting place. It’s an old river town across from Cincinnati. It has interesting architecture, too.

So, I came home from that day and happened to take out the words from the bag and dump them on the dining room table. I started creating a puzzle from them. The photo shoot from Newport was what I was focusing on, and those thoughts were controlling my arms in terms of where I put the words. So, that set the direction in motion.

I decided to go with that and describe Newport—not literally, but my impressions of it—using these shards of words and controlling as little as I could about where the lyrics landed.

The song also has a line that goes “Rise motherfucker! Upside the river.” And that’s turned into a fan favorite. Why? Because everyone gets to yell “motherfucker.” Even 70-year-olds that come to our shows ask, “Can you play the motherfucker song?” [laughs]

Provide some insight into “Raymond Thunder-Sky” and why you wanted to immortalize him in song.

Because he was just too fascinating. He was thought to be on the spectrum, but was never formally diagnosed. He was a Native American guy you’d see in the Northside of Cincinnati, because that’s where he lived. While I was waiting for a bus one day, I saw him, and I pretty much started to chronicle who he is and what he did with as much detail as I could muster.

He would wear clown pants, an Elizabethan collar, and a yellow construction hat. He’d carry a toolbox and a big pad of paper around. So, he was basically a combination of clown and construction worker. Some people actually called him The Cincinnati Construction Clown. But he wasn’t being ironic or silly.

Anyone that saw him would think, “Who the fuck’s that guy?” And then eventually they’d realize he was a very talented artist who drew primarily with colored pencil. His favorite things to draw were construction and demolition sites that were in the process of being raised. You might call them deconstruction sites. He’d create pictures of buildings that were half-destroyed with their pipes and wires sticking out, along with cranes, and even workers in offices.

He’d draw everything in detail somewhere between childlike and a high-resolution rendering. Some of his drawings would also have these sites turned into circus grounds. Sometimes there would be a circus tent or trapeze nearby. They were really fun and compelling to look at.

He died in 2004. I had been threatening to write a song about him since then and I finally did it.

Discuss how "Mixtape" came together and what it chronicles.

It can be a unique collaborative process with Kelly. Sometimes I’ll interview her about her idea, write some stuff down, tell her what I’m thinking in response, and then she’ll give me her notes, and I’ll generate material. Then we’ll work on it further from there.

“Mixtape” reflects Kelly thinking about a close friend of hers from when she was a young woman. The girl would come over and they’d listen to music, and they’d hang out and do lots of stuff together, despite being pretty different. It looks at their friendship. Eventually, the two of them began to fall into different cliques and grew apart. Her friend died really young, unfortunately, and they weren’t able to have a reunion later on in life.

Flying Underground, 2017: Brian Lovely, Chris Arduser, Kelly McCracken, and Dave Ramos | Photo: Gary Mitchell

Describe the circumstances surrounding Chris Arduser’s departure from Flying Underground.

I first saw Chris with The Bears in the ‘80s and they kicked my ass. I thought, “Wow, there’s a rock drummer that can go proggy, poppy, and rock.” Rob Fetters, who was in The Bears, was someone I toured with in 1992 as part of Adrian Belew’s band. So, I became friends with all of those guys and got to know Chris over the years.

Eventually, I started working with Chris. I would record his solo music at my studio and other places. He was such an intense guy, super-talented, and very smart. He was an encyclopedia of music and film, and pretty literary, too. So, it was always fun to engage with him. We were kindred spirits.

By the time the late ‘90s hit, I decided I needed a new drummer for Flying Underground and it needed to be someone that kicks ass. I remember thinking, “It has to be Chris.” And he said, “Yeah, I’ll do it.” So, that was the beginning of us playing together. We became close friends over time. When my first marriage was ending, I slept on his couch a few times. His dog stole my socks. [laughs] And for 12 years or so, we worked on so much music together.

Chris also worked with me in Blessid Union of Souls. When the band got back together in the late 2000s, the leader, Eliot Sloan, wanted to focus on touring and playing their hits. He had asked me earlier to join the band when it first formed in 1990, but it didn’t feel like it was my thing. But this time, the opportunity emerged after I had lost my voice, and it seemed like good timing, and another project to be involved with that actually paid decent money.

Eliot needed some more musicians for the band, and I said to him, “You know what, I can just ask the guys in Flying Underground to join.” He agreed. So, Chris and Dave Ramos became part of the touring band for 12 years. I served as music director, and I still do that for the band. Chris and I would often room together during those tours. We went all over the world together with that group.

Chris was very good at packaging all the aspects of his life into very specific slots. Somehow, he slotted his alcoholism perfectly out of the light to the degree that most people didn’t really notice it. He liked to imbibe and indulge, but as far as I could tell, he had it under control. He would tell you to your face that it was the case. But slowly, his health started to decline. He was always a kind of mercurial personality, so there was wiggle room there for people to not necessarily attribute his behavior to alcohol.

Chris would eventually start not being as interested in things as he used to be. He’d arrive at rehearsals in rough shape. Sometimes he’d cancel at the last minute. Sometimes he wouldn’t show up at all. There were nights he was totally wasted. His playing was declining. I said to him, “You clearly have a dragon to slay. What are you going to do?" There were interventions. However, he made it clear that he was not interested in figuring out why he was drinking. He was very private and was not going to relay anything he didn’t want you to know.

So, I had to let him go from Blessid Union. And then I had to let him go from Flying Underground. At that point, he had been let go from all his other groups, too. He took it in stride and said something like, “Another door is closing on me.” He acted a little bit like a victim and was in denial, which is a sign of the disease. It was incredibly depressing to watch somebody throw it all away before your eyes.

When I heard the news that Chris had passed away in 2023, I wasn’t surprised. It was horribly sad, but it was almost sadder during the years before that. He was clearly on a mission to the bottom, and nobody could talk to him or help him.

Chris was a big influence on me. He was such a fine multi-instrumentalist and songwriter. He was also highly productive with his output. After he passed away, it was time to gather up all the memories and work that Chris brought to us all, including so many unique songs and recordings, many of which I am happy to have been a part of. He was such a complex, talented guy.

Blessid Union of Souls, 2024: Brian Lovely, Eliot Sloan, Dave Ramos, Dan Dorff, and David Lessing | Photo: Michael Wilson

What are your priorities as they relate to creating visibility for Flying Underground?

My aspirations have always been musical, not financial. It’s just the way I am, good, bad, or indifferent. And this goes for Flying Underground and every other group I’ve been involved with.

I have responsibilities in life. I’m not young. The people that usually make it big in the music industry are young and don’t have as many responsibilities. They’re okay with living on a shoestring, and when they come back from tours, their cats are skinny, and their plants are dead. They’re figuring out how to build audiences and that’s one of their core priorities. I respect that immensely.

I’m really good at writing, recording, and performing music regionally. When you try to go beyond that, it involves a lot of work done online through Instagram, TikTok, and YouTube. I love playing for our local audiences. We’re focused on the stage and our community. We’re not focused on “What’s our TikTok strategy?” That’s where breaking out lives these days.

When I went on tour with Adrian Belew in 1992 and then got back home to Cincinnati, I was 30 years old. By all accounts, I had been discovered at that point. It moved me up in the hierarchy and opportunities increased. At that point, I could have moved to Los Angeles and become the next hot Johnny. I could have got a gig playing with famous people, becoming a road musician, and plugging into the city’s scene.

What I actually did when I got home was think, “Yeah, I could do that. But I don’t want to. I just want to become a good artist.” I decided, I’d rather dig a ditch and focus on the art than focus on the business of the music. And I can honestly tell you, I’m not intimidated, or resentful of artists who I admire that can do things I can’t because of where they are on the industry ladder.

I’m not driven by that stuff. I’ve been a musician my whole life. I love to jump into the pool with other musicians and make music happen. I ain’t afraid of music. I’m driven by living and creating as authentically as I can. I only want to see what happens when I do those things.

I know a lot of musicians, personally. The truth is, quite a few live in a perpetual crisis of confidence because of their frustration with the music industry’s lack of acknowledgement. Expand on how you got past that.

What you’re describing is a horrible way to live. Who wants to live their life on a comparative basis with the success of others? I don’t consider popularity a sign of success or quality. I also don’t think that’s a convenient excuse for being a failure.

I’ve developed a strong sense of what I think is substantive and what isn’t. We all know that great shit routinely goes unnoticed and always has. And horrible shit often rises to the top. The sooner you can just accept that, the better. Why wouldn’t you just accept that and move on? You don’t have to like it, and you don’t have to help promote the horrible shit, but you can acknowledge that it’s how life works.

So, there’s an attitude statement in here. My dream was not to be a rock star. My dream was to be a musician. It’s about pursuing a certain level of virtuosity in composition and performance. It’s a good old-fashioned working musician mentality. I’ve paid my dues to the point where I can make a living and be in a position of creativity rather than clocking in to do shit I don’t want to do. So, in that way, I’ve already surpassed my dreams. Everything else is gravy.

If we go out and play a great show, even if it’s just for eight people, I feel like I’ve succeeded. Do I want to have a larger audience? Absolutely. Am I willing to force myself into the way self-promotion works today and how technology is involved with it? No. The shit you have to do online to get people’s attention goes completely against my nature. So, here we are in the Cincinnati area playing for people of any age. They’re really into it and that’s great. If we’re somehow able to reach people at a national level at some point, that would be great, but if not, it’s okay, too.

Brian Lovely and The Secret, 1995: Teddy Wilburn, Brian Lovely, and C.C. Thomas | Photo: D. Altman Fletscher

How do you look back at your Brian Lovely and The Secret days and its pursuit of funk and R&B directions?

I’ve always been interested in playing all styles of music, because that’s who I am. At the time of The Secret, I was part of a network of working musicians and got to play with C.C. Thomas and Teddy Wilburn who have incredible backgrounds in R&B, funk, and fusion. I was familiar with all of that as well, but those things were their strong suits. Combined with my rock and pop sensibilities, we were able to create something really interesting together.

There’s a track on the album Psst we did called “Link in the Chain” which is a prog-rock song that co-mingled with funkiness and psychedelic pop. It’s emblematic of what was unique about the band. And we’d also do covers like “Sex Machine” which in performance would turn into long funky jams.

Paul Rodgers was my first role model when it came to singing. He’s a blues rocker and to this day, I believe he’s the best rock singer of all time. His performances with Free are amazing. He’s an example of a White guy with a lot of Black influences, and he’s able to make them his own. I kept that in mind when I approached music with The Secret.

Your 2002 solo album Superimpose is even more kaleidoscopic. Reflect on its approach.

It was post-The Secret and before Flying Underground really emerged. At the time, I was hosting a songwriter night for a couple of years. I was really focused on writing and recording songs during that period. I was also really refining my songwriting, production, and arranging approaches, and that’s all reflected on the album.

It’s pop and rock music, but it’s also a little proggy, with extended, interesting chords, and soloing—but not too much. I was really focused on song structure. I could have done more guitar soloing on the album, but there’s been so much of that done by other people that I decided I wanted my guitar solos to be placed to support the songs, exclusively.

Overall, the album represents a period of growth for me.

Faux Frenchmen: Brian Lovely, Don Aren, Paul Patterson, and George Cunningham | Photo: Michael Wilson

You’ve been part of Faux Frenchmen for 22 years. Tell me about your interest in gypsy jazz and how the band evolved over time.

Django Reinhardt is someone a lot of jazz musicians and aficionados know, and his presence among those people continues. He was incredibly well-known internationally between the ‘40s-‘60s, but today his music is considered a very niche genre. I knew about Django in passing from being a jazz guitarist who studied the expanse of the instrument.

A Cincinnati jazz musician named Elliot Jablonsky became a restaurateur and opened a place called Tinks in the city, and he wanted to have live music there. He knew George Cunningham and said, “Hey, I want to have some David Grisman-style stuff at Tinks.” He thought of George because he’s so steeped in Americana fingerpicking style. George responded, “I don’t play that stuff, but how about a Django kind of thing?” Elliot said, “Yeah, okay.” Then George called me, the bassist Don Aren, and the violinist Karen Addie, and suddenly we had a band put together over the phone. A couple of years later, the Cincinnati Symphony orchestra virtuoso, Paul Patterson, took over from Karen.

I thought the idea was great. It was an opportunity to study a very specific style of jazz by this virtuoso few people know about today. I was openly cynical about how long it would last. I thought, “This is way too cool for anyone to care, but let’s give it a chance.” I listened to the music, studied it, and started really focusing on it. But typically, as a working musician, there wasn’t much need to play this music. I thought it was just a passing interest.

So, we started performing and as it turns out, I’m happy to admit I was completely wrong. People were totally fascinated by the music. It’s so stylistically interesting and fresh to them. It’s also so adaptable. You can play it in a restaurant or out on the sidewalk and it still has so much intensity, but it doesn’t necessarily have to have volume.

It’s also infinitely challenging virtuoso music with improvisation. It has great energy. It travels well. Everyone from hipsters to soccer moms seem to think it’s cool.

We treat it very seriously. And we went on to compose new music in the style. We’ve really pushed ourselves as hard as we can to be sophisticated interpreters of this approach.

After a few years of doing it, we began to realize we’re part of a cosmic wave of interest in Django. For instance, The Milwaukee Hot Club and The Nashville Hot Club are bands performing this music in their areas. We didn’t intend to be the Cincinnati version, because we weren’t consciously aware that this was something happening. But here we are, still doing it. And it has been very artistically and professionally satisfying and has significantly developed my guitar and jazz playing further.

You’ve established yourself as a first-call producer in the Cincinnati scene. Discuss how that expertise and reputation developed.

I’ve been plugged into the Cincinnati music scene for so long on a full-time basis as a musician, songwriter, and band guy. As we discussed, I never left, even after I did the Adrian Belew tour. I also didn’t leave after graduating from college. It's a Cincinnati thing for so many to move away and go for the big time. I never felt that was necessary. I didn't grow up in Cincinnati and didn’t feel the need to escape. There were great musical mentors and opportunities a plenty in Cincinnati. It’s where East meets West, and North meets South.

As the late, great John Von Ohlen told me, “It’s in the ground.” I think it’s great how he put that. So, I’ve been here my whole adult life as a working musician. I guess some people like what I do, and I’ve got a funny name that’s easy to remember. [laughs]

Hopefully, I’m not known for being an overbearing or pushy producer. I’d like to think the musicians choose me because I’m trying to help them do what I’m trying to do as an artist. I’m a musician first and a technical guy further down the road. I’ve picked up the technical abilities as I’ve gone along, but I think people work with me because there’s a simpatico and understanding of what they’re trying to achieve, and I help them get there. I also understand how personal and important what they’re doing is to them.

I really enjoy doing it. It also helps me earn a living because I’ve done a lot of it. That also extends into my work as a session guy for musicians beyond production.

What are some key highlights of your production career?

I really like the work I’ve done with Greg Mahan, in particular his album Thirty-Five-Cent Daydream. I’m also happy with my production on Blessid Union of Souls’ Live at Never on Sunday CD and DVD.  I’ve also recently produced some great new material for Joe Jordan, who went from being a songwriter for other artists to doing his own stuff. He just signed a deal with Atlantic. I should also mention I’m happy with my production on my own solo and band albums, including the Faux Frenchmen stuff.

The work I’m doing on Sharna Pax’s forthcoming debut album is also really cool. Peter Obermark, the singer-songwriter of the band, has written some excellent stuff for it. Sharna Pax has some great talent in it, including George Cunningham on guitar, Hallie Menkhaus on vocals, Mike Tittel on drums, and Dave Ramos on bass. It’s fun to work with such fully-formed adults interested in making real art. Since the songs are strong, I can just nudge them here and push them a little there, but mostly my job is to capture what they’re doing.

The Adrian Belew Band, 1992: Mike Hodges, Brian Lovely, Adrian Belew, and Rob Fetters | Photo: Michael Wilson

How did the opportunity to join Adrian Belew on his 1992 Inner Revolution tour emerge and what was the experience like?

I spent my twenties paying dues and playing in all sorts of bands. And that’s the period I met Stan Hertzman, who was Adrian’s manager at the time. He knew I was a multi-instrumentalist and could sing. So, when Adrian was putting together a group for the Inner Revolution tour, Stan thought of me. It was my version of “being discovered.”

During my twenties, I was also way into Adrian and the ‘80s version of King Crimson. Adrian was from the region and suddenly, someone called me to play with him. It blew my mind. I had to keep my shit together when I was suddenly sitting in a rehearsal space with him preparing for the tour, together with Rob Fetters on guitar and Mike Hodges on drums.

I played bass, not guitar on that tour, because that’s what they needed. I’ve always been a very serious bass player since high school. It has been its own little side hustle for me. Playing bass has given me a lot of opportunities to play music and this was an example of it. But during the encore, we’d all switch instruments and I’d play lead guitar and do vocals during “The Momur,” so I’d have a big guitar moment during the show.

The tour was great. I wasn’t some wunderkind like Tony Williams who started touring at 19 with Miles Davis. I had 10 years of being a grown-up and paying dues. I was able to get into that van and drive to gigs all over the continent, have someone set up shit for me, and play music for people who were waiting for us to perform. Obviously, they were waiting for Adrian, but they went “hooray” as soon as we started, and “hooray” when we finished. And then someone else tore my shit down while I went back to my hotel.

It wasn’t me and my buddies partying 24x7 on the road. It was a grown-up version of touring. So, as far I was concerned it was easy and amazing. I’m still super grateful for the experience and I feel like I had earned it, frankly.

It was also great to play with Rob Fetters in that band. He’s another one of my heroes. I try to be careful with that word, but I love Rob and admire him. We’ve been friends a long time. I was listening to his work with The Raisins very early on. And to me, what they were doing was far and above anything that was happening in Cincinnati. It was my kind of music. I learned a lot from what he did with them. It was a case of conscious learning. I absorbed what it was like to be a purveyor of original music in a small city from him. The Raisins were a guiding light for me. So, playing with one of my mentors in that capacity was so valuable.

You once performed with Spinal Tap. Tell the tale.

This is very linear as it relates to working with Adrian. I was playing at Slim’s in San Francisco with Adrian for a couple of nights in 1992, which was also the year Spinal Tap’s Break Like the Wind tour was happening. And Harry Shearer and Michael McKean were at one of those shows. So, I got to meet them backstage. Jerry Harrison was there as well.

They were very nice, smart, and funny people. Harry asked us, “Where are you guys playing next?” We said, “We’re going to Phoenix.” We realized we’d be in the city at the same time and that we were going to have a day off the night Spinal Tap played. Harry said, “You’ve got to come to our show and come up on stage and play on ‘Big Bottom.’” I was like, “Fuck yeah!”

I said “I know the song. I’ll review it, and I’ll be ready.” It was at a large outdoor venue. When it was time, Rob, Adrian, and I went backstage. There were lots of people there. The Meat Puppets were supplying electric basses and an entourage for Spinal Tap that evening, and a few of the women went out and did the “Stonehenge” bit dressed as fairies. And then it was our turn. A road guy said, “Okay, here we go. There are some basses out there. Just grab one.” Adrian and I went out on stage, and in character, they introduced us both by name.

Adrian and I grabbed these old, beat-up Fender P-Basses. I looked to my right, and one of the women dressed as a fairy also had one. She looked at me and said, “Fuck yeah! Let’s go.” So, the three of us played bass along with Spinal Tap on “Big Bottom.” It was all a blur but so amazing.

Then we went backstage. They finished their show, and we hung out all night. I loved it because we were being rock stars, backstage, smoking weed with all these freaky people around. Michael, Harry, and Christopher Guest all stayed dressed in character. So, there was Harry in a silk robe. It was hilarious. The whole thing was mocking rock star lifestyles, but we still actually lived it that night.

What are your thoughts about the value of music to connect and elevate people during such a period of polarization and chaos?

It’s a cliché to talk about the power of music, but the cliché exists because it’s generally true. I am so happy to be involved with music. Objectively, I believe there's nothing more amazing than music.

It’s patterned language that supersedes all dialects and conventional connections. It represents the essence of humanity. It’s the most poetic, purest form of human communication. It’s literally the creation of sound waves that travel through the air going from human beings directly into the brains of other human beings.

We all experience the impact of music individually, but at concerts, we experience it together at the same time. So, music will always be a certain way of bringing people together to, yes, shut the fuck up, and vibe in unison. At gigs, you have permission to not be defensive, overly cautious, or wary. You have permission to love. Music will always have that power.

Even when atheist punks are slam dancing in a pit, they're at church. They’re experiencing God in the sense that they’re connecting to the cosmos and other human beings. So, in whatever form it takes, music is important and should be respected, including how musicians are treated and how music gets monetized.

This also goes back to our earlier discussion and whether or not I care about “making it.” I never cared about that. What I really care about is simply making music. I’m a lifelong music maker. Every day is music.

And on those days when I wonder if being a music maker is enough, I remember after a Faux Frenchmen show, a couple came up to me. They said “We’ve been planning to see you for four weeks. We got a babysitter. We can’t thank you enough for the performance.” I said, “Thank you, I appreciate it.” Then they said, “No, you don’t understand, this was so important to us.” I replied, “I do understand.” I realize that it’s my role to usher this stuff in for people and that it really helps them. As Art Blakey said, “Music washes away the dust of everyday life."