XL music: Alejandro Escovedo

Creature in his blood

Five years ago, the effects of hepatitis C almost took Alejandro Escovedo's life. These days, he's regained his strength onstage as he releases the muscular 'Real Animal'

By Michael Corcoran
AMERICAN-STATESMAN STAFF
Thursday, June 26, 2008

Moments after he stepped off the stage of the Continental Club on a Tuesday night in April, Alejandro Escovedo was set upon by a couple of women young enough to be two of his six daughters.

"That rocked!" they said, or words to that effect. A few more well-wishers drifted toward Escovedo, who's always been accessible after a show.

"Look at that," said drummer Hector Munoz, whose association with the 57-year-old Escovedo goes back to their time together in 1980s powerhouse True Believers. "It's just like it used to be," Munoz laughed, "only better."

Indeed, Escovedo's career has never been on such an upswing. He's signed to Jon Landau Management, which has done pretty well the past 30 or so years with a boardwalk poet named Bruce Springsteen. And there's real heat behind the new Escovedo album "Real Animal," produced by glamrock king Tony Visconti (David Bowie, T. Rex), which is getting some of the best reviews of his career. Friday night, Escovedo flashed his brilliant smile on "Late Night With Conan O'Brien," his first network television appearance in 12 years. He'll be on David Letterman's show Aug. 7.

There's also a Jonathan Demme documentary on Escovedo in the planning stages.

But none of this stuff is even close to being the best part of Escovedo's return to glory from a near-fatal illness. First let's go to the low point.

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'There's a creature in my body/ There's a creature in my blood/ Don't know how long he's been there/ Or why he's after us.'

'Golden Bear'

(ALEJANDRO Escovedo/CHUCK Prophet)

The voice on the phone in June 2003 was weak, weary, yet determined. "I'm gonna get through this," said Escovedo, who had collapsed after a performance in Tempe, Ariz., six weeks earlier. The ravages of hepatitis C, inflamed by Escovedo's continued use of alcohol after being diagnosed in 1996, had caused a physical breakdown. He threw up so much blood it took an emergency transfusion to save his life. An endoscopy revealed that Escovedo's liver was scarred, his abdomen riddled with tumors. He had a hard road of recovery and treatment ahead. "I'm gonna play music again," he said that June in Wimberley. Then a pause of deflation. "But it's never going to be the same."

Although there would be dour, confessional odes to come and new songs about illness, family and being in love, Escovedo had to admit that he'd never again be strong enough to shift into the extra gear that used to stir such jubilant chaos after all the cello songs had been put away for the night. There was one thing Escovedo could do better than anyone else and that was to plug into his idols and blast inhibition all over the walls. South by Southwest wasn't officially over each year until Escovedo and his band buzz-sawed and screeched their way through a 10-minute version of "I Wanna Be Your Dog" that had fans leaping in pure, sleep-deprived delirium. When Escovedo said that it would never be the same again, he meant that his ability to create moments like that was gone forever.

But five years is a long time, sometimes even longer than forever.

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'We made it this far/ A little piece of fame/ Up on the bandstand/ Nobody knows no shame'

'Nuns Song' (Escovedo/Prophet)

The highlight of this comeback story happened 40 minutes or so before Escovedo's red pointed shoes stepped off the stage of the Continental that Tuesday night in April. It happens every night Escovedo and his band play like they still have something to prove. To see him again at full strength is like something beloved that was torn down being rebuilt and you feel the same when you walk inside. It came back at the Continental that Tuesday night when the band, featuring the amazing David Pulkingham on guitar, slayed a once-complacent crowd with a one-two knockout punch of "Castanets," his KGSR hit from 2001, and Neil Young's "Powderfinger."

Two months later, the nation saw the uncaged fury on "Conan O'Brien," when the lanky Latino and band snarled and slashed their way through the new "Chelsea Hotel '78" like they were playing Max's Kansas City. Just like the old days, only better.

Alejandro Escovedo was born to be in a rock 'n' roll band. It's the religion he follows at the cost of everything else, including health and family. He's one of those "Sensitive Boys" of "Real Animal," one of those fragile souls who jumps into a life that swallows them whole. They put on the Johnny Thunders outfit, which comes with pawn tickets in the pockets, and then can't take it off. They can become caricatures or, like Escovedo, they play music that makes the audiences feel the way Iggy and Mott the Hoople and the New York Dolls and AC/DC and the Rolling Stones made him feel. Having Landau and his business partner Barbara Carr guide his career is great, especially with Springsteen's goodwill as an automatic door opener, but it doesn't mean anything when it's time to go on and the crowd wonders if you can still bring the high heat. And you know you still can.

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'Up on the mound I was 10 feet tall/ In my black turtle neck just like Juan Marichal.'

'Chip N' Tony' (Escovedo/Prophet)

'Real Animal" is a statement of full physical recovery, though that wasn't its intention. "I was looking back and I realized that I'd never made a real rock 'n' roll record," Escovedo said of a solo career that began with 1992's "Gravity." Previously, the beam-shakers such as "Five Hearts Breaking" and "Everybody Loves Me" were mixed in with the more introspective numbers. But "Real Animal" is a musical memoir stuck on the "glam rock" setting. Even the rare ballad, such as "Hollywood Hills," sounds like a Mott the Hoople song.

The bouncy leadoff track "Always a Friend," the Springsteen soundalike that Escovedo actually sang with Bruce and the E Street Band in Houston in April, sets the LP's theme. "It's about having the best intentions in a relationship, but you're out on the road, playing music and having a great time, which is a sure ingredient for disaster," he said. "I remember coming home on tour one time and someone was mad at me and my clothes and my records were flying out the door." The song pleads for understanding. "Every once in a while, honey, let yourself go/ Nobody gets hurt." It's his answer to "Racing in the Streets," the Springsteen song that seems to be about cars, but has a deeper meaning of what gets lost when someone is obsessed with a calling. Although he didn't start playing music until he was 24, Escovedo said he wanted to be in a band since his older half-brothers (same father, different mother) Coke and Pete Escovedo played in Santana. "They looked different than everybody else," he recalled. "They were cool like Miles Davis or John Coltrane." But Alejandro hardly saw his older brothers, who were always on tour.

"Being a musician, the time gone can be devastating to your family life," said Escovedo, whose first marriage ended in suicide and his second in acrimonious divorce. Although Escovedo's womanizing ways in the 1980s were known — near legendary really — within the True Believers circle, it wasn't until a roadie published an indiscretion-chronicling tour diary in Spin magazine in 1987 that it was clear that Escovedo considered regular dalliances with groupies a part of being in a band. Escovedo met current wife Kim Christoff while M.O.T. — married on tour — in 2000.

"I have to be honest. I don't always have a great relationship with my kids," Escovedo said. "I've put them through a lot and they resent a lot of things I did. I've always wanted my kids to know that playing music is an honorable profession, but some of them have no interest because of what they've seen it do to our family."

The pivotal song of "Real Animal" is "Golden Bear," a song, in part, about having an incurable affliction. With lyrics about a creature in the bloodstream, it seems to be about hepatitis C, which could almost be nicknamed "Alejandro Escovedo Disease" for all the attention his struggle with it brought him from 2003 to 2006. But since "Golden Bear" is the club where Escovedo fell in love with live music, where he'd see Buffalo Springfield and Love and Ike and Tina Turner as a teenager growing up in Huntington Beach, Calif., the song could also be about an incurable love of rock 'n' roll. One makes you sick, the other makes you invincible.

At least that's what Escovedo thought, as he kept up the hard partying after-show lifestyle, even after being diagnosed with hepatitis C. "I was asking myself if following this music is what led to making me ill," Escovedo said of "Golden Bear's" dual message.

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'I'm gonna crawl upon the shore/ Roll in the mud and the clay/ Like the swallows of San Juan/ I'm gonna get back someday'

'Swallows of San Juan' (Escovedo/Prophet)

Escovedo said ideas for some of the songs came to him when he was flat on his back in Wimberley, slowly wasting away while interferon treatments deadened his muscles. "When you feel that near to death, it's just like they say, your life is a movie that runs backwards. All these old faces and places were flashing." Escovedo said there was no nostalgic tug in those memories; they were simply people and places he'd probably never see again.

He credits Tibetan herbs, administered by holistic healer Dr. Diki Nyerongsha of Los Angeles, as well as twice-weekly acupuncture treatments, with helping him regain his health. He was able to pay the bills during his three years off the road thanks to the Alejandro Escovedo Medical and Living Expenses Fund, which received proceeds from the 2004 "Por Vida" double-disc tribute record, on which such Escovedo friends and fans as Steve Earle, Ian Hunter, Lucinda Williams, Cowboy Junkies, Los Lonely Boys and Son Volt covered Escovedo compositions. About 40,000 copies of the CD were sold in the United States, a high figure for a tribute album.

"When I was finally well enough to get my sense of humor back, I started remembering all the joy in those old times," Escovedo said of the youthful memories that had been playing in his head.

"The first song Chuck (co-writer Prophet) and I wrote together was 'Slow Down,' " he said. "It's about trying to go back to a place that doesn't exist anymore, but trying to get the same vibe. I was thinking about how I wanted to take Kim back to where I grew up. The salty air is still the same, but everything else is gone."

"Real Animal" closes your eyes and opens your mind to San Francisco in the '70s, when Escovedo played a guitar for the first time in the Nuns, whom he calls "the worst band of all time." Luckily, they came from a musical era when that wasn't such a bad thing and actually opened the final concert by the original Sex Pistols at Winterland. The record takes you to the Chelsea Hotel 1978, where most of the spoons were burned on the bottom and Sid and Nancy fought through the walls until the night Escovedo emerged from the subway station to see Sid Vicious being led away in handcuffs. The album takes you to Austin in the early '80s, where Escovedo moved with "cowpunk" innovators Rank and File, featuring a couple of other former S.F. punk rockers, Tony and Chip Kinman.

After singing about illness and introspection on 2006's "The Boxing Mirror," a John Cale-produced album critics raved about then never listened to again, Escovedo reclaims the times and the music that have always made him feel most alive on "Real Animal." It's about being such a fan that you learn to play — and then the real drama begins.

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'Slow down, it's too fast/ Want to live in the moment/ But I'm tangled in the past'

'Slow Down' (Escovedo/Prophet)

Escovedo's ninth solo album, which came out Tuesday on Manhattan/Back Porch, was originally going to be produced by the legendary Glyn Johns, whose range of credits goes from "Who's Next" by the Who to "Desperado" by the Eagles. Escovedo met with Johns in France for a few days before deciding that it wasn't a good fit. "He's a real cool guy, but I didn't feel like we were connecting," Escovedo said. "Chuck and I felt that we had an album, but (Glyn Johns) wasn't sure." Escovedo sent the same demo disc to Visconti, who now works out of Lexington, Ky. "Tony just fell in love with the songs. He saw the whole picture right away," Escovedo said.

The album was recorded in 11 days using Escovedo's band, including bassist Josh Gravelin, violinist Susan Voelz and cellist Brian Standefer. They went in and bashed it out like they were the Faces. But the label wasn't totally convinced, Escovedo said, that this was the one.

Barbara Carr was.

Manhattan/Back Porch label manager Ian Ralfini had given an advance copy of "Real Animal" to Carr, who was aware of Escovedo after hearing husband Dave Marsh rave about him every year after SXSW. Escovedo had recently parted ways with manager Heinz Geissler ("a mutual decision," Escovedo said, which Geissler confirmed) and was looking for representation. "I usually don't play music loud at home and I yell at Dave when he does, but I just loved Alejandro's record," Carr said. "I'd turn it up."

Escovedo flew up to New York in early March and had lunch with Carr and Jan Stabile, also of Jon Landau Management, at I Trulli restaurant on East 27th Street in Manhattan. "We loved meeting him," Carr said. A thought ran through her head: "If anybody in this world deserves to have somebody work for him and try to make him successful — with more than the press and fellow artists — it's Alejandro," Carr said. The management deal was set into motion after that first meeting.

Things started happening almost right away. In late April, Escovedo was booked to play one of the main stages at JazzFest in New Orleans for the first time in his career. He got the national TV bookings and was hired to open six shows for the Dave Matthews Band in 18,000-capacity arenas. He's also got a new flashy new Web site, with so many tough guy pics of him in sunglasses that he looks like the Tex-minator. The opening chords of "Always a Friend" greet each visitor.

"It's a good time and we're ready for it," Escovedo said. "We've been doing this for so long, nothing's gonna surprise us."

Well, there was that one time Escovedo has his name called and his knees almost turned to jelly. On April 14, Escovedo and Christoff were driving from Wimberley to Houston to have dinner with Carr and Stabile before a Springsteen show at the Toyota Center.

Escovedo tells the story: "About two hours outside of Houston we get a text message that says, 'Can you be at sound check in 45 minutes? Bruce wants to do 'Always a Friend' tonight.' We're already doing 90 just to make the dinner. There's no way we can make sound check. We get there about 6:30 and the show's at 8. They rush us in and Bruce invites me into his dressing room. I go through the song a couple of times with him."

It turned out that on the plane to Houston, Springsteen listened to "Real Animal" on his headphones, and he told Stabile, "We're doing 'Always a Friend' tonight. Call him. Is he in?" Springsteen worked out a slightly new arrangement, lengthening the intro and adding a chorus, and worked it with the band during soundcheck, as Escovedo was stuck in Houston traffic. It's the arrangement Escovedo now uses in concert.

Escovedo had never seen Springsteen in concert, and he said, "I was honestly blown away." He had a set list so he could see where he'd come in at the first encore. "So as it gets closer and closer, I'm really sweating. I'm really nervous." When the set ended, Springsteen came charging into the wings. "Where's Alejandro?"

This was the moment Alejandro Escovedo had dreamed of his whole life. He'd be playing one of his songs backed by one of rock's most legendary bands in front of 18,000 people, all on their feet. He heard Springsteen give one of his great introductions (it probably sounded a little chopped and screwed in his petrified mind) and he walked out, not sure what he'd gotten himself into. Little Steven Van Zandt was facing Escovedo, gave him a nod, strummed the first chord, and everybody fell in at the right time.

"Once the music hit, man, everything was perfect," Escovedo said. "Those four minutes were like the best parts of the past 33 years condensed. I was looking out at those 18,000 people and I understood how a person could get addicted to that feeling."

But, then, Escovedo was hooked the first time he played a chord on an electric guitar in front of 30 people in some hellhole in San Francisco's Tenderloin district. He was born to play rock 'n' roll, and heaven help those who expect anything more. Or anything less.

mcorcoran@statesman.com; 445-3652