Post by MAJE on Feb 25, 2004 16:57:50 GMT -5
his name has been mention here before i think
listen to DUST :arrow: CLICK HERE!!
:arrow: VIDEO CLIP DUST CLICK HERE
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Van Hunt feels the influence of juke jointsMusic Notes: Rashod D. Ollison
The visits were a secret Daddy and I shared. But I had no business there. I was just 5, 6 years old - stomping around in my favorite gray cowboy boots in strange backrooms and funky juke joints. I took in everything: the smells, the profane conversations, the wicked laughter and the music. For me, it was all about the music on the box: Millie Jackson, Isaac Hayes, Little Milton, Tyrone Davis, Bobby Womack - that old-head soul my parents dug.
And it blared in these dives where the men played pool and card games, where Daddy sipped Seagram's gin and flirted openly with the women in too-tight clothes. If Mama knew that I was in such a place, she would have broken her foot in my father's behind.
Van Hunt, a new artist on the scene, knows what I'm talking about. We're both 26. And when I was trailing Daddy in joints in Arkansas, Van and his pops were hangin' in musty dens in Dayton, Ohio.
"Through the eyes of a child, my father had a fascinating lifestyle," says Van, calling from his pad in Atlanta. "I loved sitting in the corner of a smoke-filled dope house, tapping my feet to the music while my father and his friends cussed each other out over a game of cards."
The 12 cuts on his self-titled debut evoke the greasy, lowdown atmosphere of those rooms where our daddies shone - strolling around, pimped-out in buffed loafers and crisp pants.
Van, who will play the IOTA Club & Cafe in Arlington Sunday night, says, "I began to hear a soundtrack for the scenes and images to which I'd been exposed. I began to hear the words and melodies underneath the romance and the grit."
The album, which hits stores Feb. 24, smolders with in-the-pocket grooves. Elements of Sly Stone circa '73 and acidic rock a la Funkadelic pepper the blend. For a hint of sweetness, Van throws in subdued strings and ebbing horns, rendering the ballads ("Seconds of Pleasure," "Her December," "Down Here in Hell With You") in a Curtis Mayfield-inspired falsetto. The amalgamation goes down smoothly. It's adventurous, evolved - definitely nothing like the trite stuff passing for "neo-soul."
"Taste, as they say, is the enemy of invention," Van says. "I know the music I hear and what I want. But sometimes I have to let that go and not try to be so esoteric."
Quiet as it's kept, Van wasn't trying to be a recording artist. Since the mid-'90s, the artist worked behind the scenes, making a name for himself as a musician (brotha's fluid on the guitar, bass, drums, keyboards - "whatever I need to play," he says). And he also established himself as an in-demand songwriter. He penned "Hopeless," a 1997 hit for Dionne Farris, and one of the prime cuts on the Love Jones soundtrack. He wrote and produced songs on Rahsaan Patterson's overlooked soul classic Love In Stereo. And he co-wrote songs on Cree Summer's Lenny Kravitz-produced debut Street Fairie.
Van's manager, American Idol's Randy Jackson, convinced the artist to sing his own songs.
"He got me into the mental shape to be a recording artist," the performer says. "I was looking at the landscape out there, and thought I could sing the songs better anyway."
It was producer Dallas Austin, best-known for his work with TLC and Monica, who helped Van snag a deal with Capitol Records, which is in the midst of re-establishing its urban division with such acts as Chingy and Javier.
Van says, "Sometimes when you sign to label as a black artist, they expect you to have a certain appeal. It's like they think they know what appeals to your people better than you do. I had to just get in the mind frame of being open to other ideas and suggestions and not just the music I heard in my head."
Van knows that black folks aren't just diggin' on 50 Cent's inane rhymes or the Ying Yang Twins' booty jams. He also knows that the shades, the moods, the styles of black music run deep and vary wildly. For inspiration, the singer-songwriter looks to Thelonious Monk. Outside of soul, he loves the White Stripes, Police, even Culture Club. (Hey, I was huge Boy George fan back in the day.)
But ultimately what Van wants is just to make good music, to capture the funky essence of those times with his pops.
"The foundation for me is the songwriting and the craft," he says. "All I want is for people to hear the music. Just put me in front of an audience."And feel the soul.
Van Hunt plays the IOTA Club & Cafe, 2832 Wilson Blvd., Arlington, Va., Sunday night at 8. Tickets are $10 at the door only. For more information, visit www.iotaclubandcafe.com.
Copyright © 2004, The Baltimore Sun | Get home delivery
listen to DUST :arrow: CLICK HERE!!
about VAN HUNT
My father was a part-time painter and pimp. He was also a summer resident at an insane asylum, a result of his having faked mental illness in order to get a break from the heat and monotony of his full-time job as a factory worker. And, on at least one occasion, I went to visit him in the tiny room where he shared thoughts and toilet paper with "real" crazy people.
Through the eyes of a child, my father had a fascinating lifestyle. He and his friends would put on some fly-ass clothes, smoke a lil' herb, talk a whole lot of shit and chase beautiful women. He would often take me along with him. And, I loved it. I loved watching him take a lady into the back room, loved seeing the door close behind him, and I loved listening, straining with all my might to hear the strange sounds that followed. Sometimes, after they'd finished, I would sneak into the room and wonder what in the world could have caused such a smell - a heavy bitter mix of sweat and perfume. But, I loved it. I loved sitting in the corner of a smoke filled dope house, tapping my feet to the music while my father and his friends cussed each other out over a game of cards. It seemed to me the beat of the drums urged on their behavior, and drove the alcohol that flowed through their veins out of their bloodshot eyes. Guitars and horns percolated and made their hands tap out the rhythm uncontrollably, "1-2-3-4." All kinds of people - some I knew, some I didn't - would be coming and going every five minutes. They would slide their money to the dude at the door, ask for a particular girl, or a certain sized bag of weed and then have to wait for a few uncomfortable seconds, looking dumb and uneasy, until their needs arrived. And, I loved it. It was intoxicating. It sparked my imagination. And soon I began to hear a soundtrack for the scenes and images to which I'd been exposed. I began to hear words and melodies underneath the romance and the grit. I was completely taken by the pictures on album covers and the words inside the sleeves, words like "synthesizer", and "Hollywood." There was an explosion of thoughts and ideas inside of me. I began singing my new songs to the thousands of people I saw in the mirror. And, I played scintillating guitar licks with a broomstick.
But, I also became curious about what it was that happened during the day that made people do the things they did at night. And, later on I found out. I found out that the morning can be beautiful, but it also wakes the troubles of the mind. It opens your eyes to the reality of your situation, the problems in your relationships and the demons in your head. A tattle of wills rages from within. And, come nightfall under the cover of darkness, you run into the arms of your vices. It is the inner-turmoil and the struggle to remain sane that stimulates me. And, ultimately it is my personal struggle that reveals itself on paper. But, I love it. And, I live to write about it. And it all began with my father and his friends.
Van Hunt
My father was a part-time painter and pimp. He was also a summer resident at an insane asylum, a result of his having faked mental illness in order to get a break from the heat and monotony of his full-time job as a factory worker. And, on at least one occasion, I went to visit him in the tiny room where he shared thoughts and toilet paper with "real" crazy people.
Through the eyes of a child, my father had a fascinating lifestyle. He and his friends would put on some fly-ass clothes, smoke a lil' herb, talk a whole lot of shit and chase beautiful women. He would often take me along with him. And, I loved it. I loved watching him take a lady into the back room, loved seeing the door close behind him, and I loved listening, straining with all my might to hear the strange sounds that followed. Sometimes, after they'd finished, I would sneak into the room and wonder what in the world could have caused such a smell - a heavy bitter mix of sweat and perfume. But, I loved it. I loved sitting in the corner of a smoke filled dope house, tapping my feet to the music while my father and his friends cussed each other out over a game of cards. It seemed to me the beat of the drums urged on their behavior, and drove the alcohol that flowed through their veins out of their bloodshot eyes. Guitars and horns percolated and made their hands tap out the rhythm uncontrollably, "1-2-3-4." All kinds of people - some I knew, some I didn't - would be coming and going every five minutes. They would slide their money to the dude at the door, ask for a particular girl, or a certain sized bag of weed and then have to wait for a few uncomfortable seconds, looking dumb and uneasy, until their needs arrived. And, I loved it. It was intoxicating. It sparked my imagination. And soon I began to hear a soundtrack for the scenes and images to which I'd been exposed. I began to hear words and melodies underneath the romance and the grit. I was completely taken by the pictures on album covers and the words inside the sleeves, words like "synthesizer", and "Hollywood." There was an explosion of thoughts and ideas inside of me. I began singing my new songs to the thousands of people I saw in the mirror. And, I played scintillating guitar licks with a broomstick.
But, I also became curious about what it was that happened during the day that made people do the things they did at night. And, later on I found out. I found out that the morning can be beautiful, but it also wakes the troubles of the mind. It opens your eyes to the reality of your situation, the problems in your relationships and the demons in your head. A tattle of wills rages from within. And, come nightfall under the cover of darkness, you run into the arms of your vices. It is the inner-turmoil and the struggle to remain sane that stimulates me. And, ultimately it is my personal struggle that reveals itself on paper. But, I love it. And, I live to write about it. And it all began with my father and his friends.
Van Hunt
:arrow: VIDEO CLIP DUST CLICK HERE
[
Van Hunt feels the influence of juke jointsMusic Notes: Rashod D. Ollison
The visits were a secret Daddy and I shared. But I had no business there. I was just 5, 6 years old - stomping around in my favorite gray cowboy boots in strange backrooms and funky juke joints. I took in everything: the smells, the profane conversations, the wicked laughter and the music. For me, it was all about the music on the box: Millie Jackson, Isaac Hayes, Little Milton, Tyrone Davis, Bobby Womack - that old-head soul my parents dug.
And it blared in these dives where the men played pool and card games, where Daddy sipped Seagram's gin and flirted openly with the women in too-tight clothes. If Mama knew that I was in such a place, she would have broken her foot in my father's behind.
Van Hunt, a new artist on the scene, knows what I'm talking about. We're both 26. And when I was trailing Daddy in joints in Arkansas, Van and his pops were hangin' in musty dens in Dayton, Ohio.
"Through the eyes of a child, my father had a fascinating lifestyle," says Van, calling from his pad in Atlanta. "I loved sitting in the corner of a smoke-filled dope house, tapping my feet to the music while my father and his friends cussed each other out over a game of cards."
The 12 cuts on his self-titled debut evoke the greasy, lowdown atmosphere of those rooms where our daddies shone - strolling around, pimped-out in buffed loafers and crisp pants.
Van, who will play the IOTA Club & Cafe in Arlington Sunday night, says, "I began to hear a soundtrack for the scenes and images to which I'd been exposed. I began to hear the words and melodies underneath the romance and the grit."
The album, which hits stores Feb. 24, smolders with in-the-pocket grooves. Elements of Sly Stone circa '73 and acidic rock a la Funkadelic pepper the blend. For a hint of sweetness, Van throws in subdued strings and ebbing horns, rendering the ballads ("Seconds of Pleasure," "Her December," "Down Here in Hell With You") in a Curtis Mayfield-inspired falsetto. The amalgamation goes down smoothly. It's adventurous, evolved - definitely nothing like the trite stuff passing for "neo-soul."
"Taste, as they say, is the enemy of invention," Van says. "I know the music I hear and what I want. But sometimes I have to let that go and not try to be so esoteric."
Quiet as it's kept, Van wasn't trying to be a recording artist. Since the mid-'90s, the artist worked behind the scenes, making a name for himself as a musician (brotha's fluid on the guitar, bass, drums, keyboards - "whatever I need to play," he says). And he also established himself as an in-demand songwriter. He penned "Hopeless," a 1997 hit for Dionne Farris, and one of the prime cuts on the Love Jones soundtrack. He wrote and produced songs on Rahsaan Patterson's overlooked soul classic Love In Stereo. And he co-wrote songs on Cree Summer's Lenny Kravitz-produced debut Street Fairie.
Van's manager, American Idol's Randy Jackson, convinced the artist to sing his own songs.
"He got me into the mental shape to be a recording artist," the performer says. "I was looking at the landscape out there, and thought I could sing the songs better anyway."
It was producer Dallas Austin, best-known for his work with TLC and Monica, who helped Van snag a deal with Capitol Records, which is in the midst of re-establishing its urban division with such acts as Chingy and Javier.
Van says, "Sometimes when you sign to label as a black artist, they expect you to have a certain appeal. It's like they think they know what appeals to your people better than you do. I had to just get in the mind frame of being open to other ideas and suggestions and not just the music I heard in my head."
Van knows that black folks aren't just diggin' on 50 Cent's inane rhymes or the Ying Yang Twins' booty jams. He also knows that the shades, the moods, the styles of black music run deep and vary wildly. For inspiration, the singer-songwriter looks to Thelonious Monk. Outside of soul, he loves the White Stripes, Police, even Culture Club. (Hey, I was huge Boy George fan back in the day.)
But ultimately what Van wants is just to make good music, to capture the funky essence of those times with his pops.
"The foundation for me is the songwriting and the craft," he says. "All I want is for people to hear the music. Just put me in front of an audience."And feel the soul.
Van Hunt plays the IOTA Club & Cafe, 2832 Wilson Blvd., Arlington, Va., Sunday night at 8. Tickets are $10 at the door only. For more information, visit www.iotaclubandcafe.com.
Copyright © 2004, The Baltimore Sun | Get home delivery
