Getting scolded by a big star is a shitty way to learn a valuable lesson — but sometimes that's just the way it goes. In 1995, Seth Walker had relocated to Austin, Texas, following a brief stint in Jacksonville. Originally from rural North Carolina, the then-23-year-old wanted to be a bluesman and figured, like so many aspiring musicians before him, that The Live Music Capital of the World and former home of Stevie Ray Vaughan would be a fine place to hone his craft.
So there's Walker, fronting a low-rent blues outfit at the old Bates Motel, one of those living-room venues that offer no barrier between band and audience.
He's playing to a jubilant crowd. All is going well. Walker spots, among the beaming faces, the unmistakable mug of none other than Tom Jones. The Tom Jones, the sex symbol responsible for "She's a Lady," "It's Not Unusual" and a slew of other snazzy, Vegas-style hits that don't exactly jibe with the whole blues ethos.
But Jones apparently digs Walker and his band. So much so, he asks to sit in with them, gets behind the mic and calls for Jerry Lee Lewis' "Great Balls of Fire." Problem is, Walker doesn't know the song.
"I could barely get through a 12-bar blues number," Walker recalls sheepishly. "Man, we butchered it. Jones was so upset that a blues band from Texas didn't know 'Great Balls of Fire.' I went home and listened to the record over and over and thought 'I really should know this song.'"
Walker laughs and offers a message to Tom Jones for calling him out:
"Thank you."
Jump forward 12 years. Walker is 35 years old and on the cusp of his first national headlining tour. After building a rep playing the Texas/Deep South blues/juke-joint circuit and putting out self-produced and boutique-label albums, Walker inked a deal with Hyena, the venerable indie label responsible for issuing discs by artists ranging from alt-country luminary Dale Watson to experimental-jazz artist Skerik, plus archive releases by Big Easy legends like Aaron Neville and Dr. John. That made Hyena the ideal place for Walker and his new self-titled debut.
It's a splendid mix of roots styles: blues, soul and Americana, featuring deep-fried guitar licks, churchy organ and crisp horns, mostly delivered over spot-on shuffles. The majority of the numbers are self-penned and cowritten originals, with a couple judiciously chosen covers.
To honor highly influential blues legend Jimmy Reed, whose style had a significant impact on early rockers like Elvis Presley, Walker goes with a slowed-down, impassioned reading of the rather obscure title "I Know It's a Sin," which benefits from fierce harmonica playing that weaves in and out of every line.
"I remember we were in the studio recording 'It's a Sin,' and I said, 'I gotta have harmonica; this is a Jimmy Reed tune. Shit, I'll give Kim [Wilson] a call," Walker recalls.
Walker has known Wilson for a while. The Fabulous Thunderbirds frontman happened to be in attendance one night when Walker was performing at the Austin bar Speakeasy.
"He came up to me, and of course I knew who he was, and he told me he enjoyed the show," Walker says. "We kept in contact, and I then opened for the Thunderbirds one night at Antone's [in Austin]."
Wilson was living in Los Angeles when Walker phoned him, hoping to arrange a session in the future or maybe a digital duet, the kind done in separate studios and then slapped together. But he made the call at an opportune time.
"He goes: 'I'm sitting down here at [the Austin eatery] Chuy's; I'll be over in 20 minutes,'" Walker remembers. "It was just one of those destiny moments."
The other cover closes the album. It's Tom Waits' heartwarming pledge of love "Picture in a Frame," from his 1999 masterstroke Mule Variations. It's one of those instant classics that would make Gershwin smile, and Walker shines on it. Over gentle piano, he lends his raspy croon to the sublimely candid lyrics, making lines like "I wanna love you 'til the wheels come off" teem with authenticity.
"I was asked to sing that song at a wedding before I even knew of the song," Walker admits. "They gave me Mule Variations — I'm embarrassed to say I didn't own it before then. Tom Waits came to me late.
"I thought 'My God, that is just a perfectly written song, so simple and so perfect.' I've done it in my live sets ever since that wedding. I also thought it was a good way to end the album."
On a disc thick with emotion, one song hits the hardest. Cowritten with his pal Mark Hays, "2 Feet Left to the Ceiling" places the listener in New Orleans' Lower Ninth Ward the day after Katrina hit, the day the levees broke. Aided by the poignant trumpet work of Texan jazz great Ephraim Owens, Walker plays the role of the Crescent City lifer, the blue-collar man working 40-hour weeks, the fellow who didn't have the means to flee. Rather than wax sentimental, the songwriters give a detailed — albeit fictionalized — account of one man's mindset on that tragic day. "Sadie quit barking about an hour ago, and I can't find my way to the door," the song ends, leaving the protagonist's fate up in the air and the listener with goosebumps.
"It's a tough thing: You can get real cliché real quick with that type of subject matter," Walker says. "We made a conscious effort to just tell one story about the disaster and not try and capture the whole scope of the event in a song — just capture a little moment that someone can get a feeling from."
This article appears in Dec 12-18, 2007.