By Jef With One F
By Rocks Off
By Chris Lane
By Angelica Leicht
By Corey Deiterman
By Angelica Leicht
By Corey Deiterman
"This happens every time we step on stage / Lord, they look at us like we have lost our minds / Yeah, but then we go and break into that 'San Antonio Rose' / And they can't believe they're having a good time," Matt Hillyer sings, in a voice that's just a little deeper than the high twang with which he speaks. "And every time we hit a truck stop on the road / They say, 'You boys, you must be in a band' / 'What kind of music do you play?' and we say, 'Country' / And there's a look like they don't understand / They call us long-haired, tattooed hippie freaks."
Of course, Eleven Hundred Springs doesn't sound like your average country band either; they're much better. Playing a style of music that's "been going through an identity crisis since it began, since Hank Williams," as Hillyer says, they keep it simple and pure, good songs played by a good band. They don't doll themselves up in Nudie suits or resort to cheap don't-mess-with-Texas jingoism designed to make the Tri Delts hoot and holler. (Pat Green, we're looking in your direction.) They're a country band because they are, not because they're forcing themselves to be. If it sounds like Eleven Hundred Springs is looking backward on its four albums, it's only because Nashville gave up on country music years ago, no matter what the chamber of commerce says.
"Does anyone remember Johnny Paycheck? / Or Willie, Waylon and the late and great Doug Sahm?" Hillyer asks later in "Long-Haired, Tattooed Hippie Freaks," naming just a few of the band's idols. "Hey, a lot of them clean-cut boys they got in Nashville / Don't know a damn thing about where we're coming from." If it sounds like Hillyer and the band --single-monikered drummer Bruce, guitarist Chris Claridy, bassist Steve Berg and pedal steel-banjo-piano player Aaron Wynne -- are preaching, that they're pounding the pulpit in an attempt to get those clean-cut boys in Nashville to change their ways, they aren't. Not really. They're just explaining themselves and their music: why a bunch of hippie freaks play decades-old music and how they make it sound as new and fresh as tomorrow morning. Why? Easy, because they all genuinely love it. How? Who knows or cares. They just do, and they don't waste much time thinking about it.
Not that they have much time for the philosophy trip anyway, since their schedule keeps them so busy. Bruce says he's not happy if Eleven Hundred Springs isn't booked Thursday through Saturday, at least, and most of the time he gets his wish and then some. The group has worked out a touring circuit around Texas that goes beyond the usual stops like Austin, Houston and San Antonio. They play everywhere, even weddings; the group was the house band at B.J. Thomas's youngest daughter's nuptials. A gig's a gig.
It's a circuit that's found them sharing stages with everyone from Willie Nelson to Reverend Horton Heat, as well as frat-boy fave Pat Green. "The first time we ever played with that dude was right when we started," Hillyer remembers. "And we were going, 'Man, this isn't going to work. They aren't going to like us.' But they know a good show when they see it. Some of them are cool, and some of them are not. There's so much of that sort of fraternity mentality that just doesn't go with what we do at all. But, at the same time, I couldn't tell you how many people actually have come up to us and said, 'Oh, yeah, I saw you open for Pat Green. I went and got the CD the other day.' So every time you think, 'We just don't match up with all that,' then somebody will come along and say something like that."
"It seems the Pat Green audience, to me, is shifting, too," Claridy adds. "It's like they're not the same as they were three years ago. It was really college back then. I mean, he gets more airplay on bigger stations, so you get a more diverse crowd than you ever have."
When the audience is less diverse, that's when fun really starts. At the smaller clubs, audience members have been known to get on stage without being asked, or jump up on a table and dance, occasionally breaking the no-shoes-no shirt-no-service rule. Just bringing up the sights they've seen in less traveled corners of Texas starts a 15-minute discussion where words barely squeeze in between laughs.