Miscellaneous

Lonesome Traveler: Bill Mallonee's Flair for the Cathartic

by Jude Lovell

Thanks to Rock & Sling for allowing the reproduction of this article.

It was an appropriate venue for a gutsy, roots-based folk singer: an historical landmark called the 1860 House near Princeton, New Jersey, suffused with Americana from floor to rafter. The performer was Bill Mallonee from Athens, Georgia. In the summer of 2002, my twin brother, an old college friend, and I spontaneously decided to attend his concert. We knew we could count on two things: finding seats (Mallonee has a slender following), and a rich evening filled with heartfelt lyrics, impassioned musicianship and, above all, naked honesty.

When we arrived at the old farmhouse we found a largely empty venue, as expected. The proprietor was busy laying out complimentary soda and cookies, while an exhausted, road-bitten Mallonee warmed up on a guitar in the main room.

Mallonee had arrived late after driving himself and his equipment in a battered van from his previous gig in New England, and he rushed through his sound check. All three of us agreed that the man looked downright terrible. His eyes were sunken, his sand-colored hair appeared socket-charged, and his attire was stark—dirty jeans and a green t-shirt. He looked as if he hadn't slept for days. Each of us had seen Mallonee perform more than once with his old band, Vigilantes of Love. We were all acquainted with his long and frustrated history trying to break through in the music business. But none of us had seen him look as embattled as he did that night.

Eventually, about fifty people filled the room in which Mallonee's simplistic setup—a few acoustic and electric guitars, a harmonica rack, a music stand, and a microphone—was arranged. After a friendly introduction from the proprietor, who urged us to get the word out about Mallonee, the wiry singer waded between metal folding chairs and unattended purses, strapped on an acoustic guitar like a rifle, and thanked us all for being there. Launching into his song, "Bearing the Load," he immediately laid himself bare to a rapt audience: Here's one for the ragged ones and torn / Some of us are waiting here a lifetime to be born…"

Another Bill Mallonee catharsis had officially begun.

A Transformation

When Bill Mallonee performs, it is often a wearying, emotional experience for the audience. It's almost painful to see him, road-beaten, forlorn, step up and begin his nightly offering with a salute to the "ragged ones," when he might as well be singing into a mirror. But these raw displays are his foremost strength. He doesn't just sing about the plight of regular, hard-working, faithful human beings like Bruce Springsteen does. Mallonee lives it, gig to gig, record to record.

As this particular performance continued, a remarkable transformation began. Mallonee's overall appearance actually improved—dramatically—the longer he played. His clothing was no less ragged or dirty. This was no transfiguration. Nonetheless, it seemed clear that Mallonee's spirit was somehow lifted. The change could be heard, seen, almost touched.

By the time the show was over, he was a new man. When we got a chance to chat with Mallonee afterwards—he regularly encourages listeners to "stick around if you wanna talk"—the enthusiasm, and even joy for, his itinerant life had seemingly returned. As an artist with a Christian perspective (he's Roman Catholic), Mallonee's lyrics have always included a cognizance of, and appreciation for, the struggle of humankind. His songs often deptict the potential for true happiness and redemption through humility and faith, even suffering.

In a word, Mallonee's music has always been a kind of catharsis.

Going Solo

Mallonee joined the singer-songwriter ranks at the ripe age of thirty, a time when most young men are seeking to settle down. Mallonee himself was no exception; early in the 1980s, he married his wife, Brenda. On January 1, 2005, Mallonee turned fifty. His current music reflects his age and his accumulated experience as a struggling artist, a man trying to answer a challenging call to a particular vocation, as well as function as a responsible husband and father (the Mallonees have two sons)—all at the same time.

Mallonee led the Vigilantes of Love (VoL) through ten years and eleven records, scoring hits occasionally in the alternative-college radio scene with underground classics like "Real Downtown" and "Double Cure." Their final album, Summershine, was released in 2001 on Compass Records. A bright, optimistic effort with lush pop overtones a departure from Mallonee's customarily somber songwriting, the album ironically became the swan song for a fine band that had labored tirelessly for a decade to earn the attention of music business executives.

The end came quickly for VoL. Compass Records, having signed the band and re-released their originally self-produced Audible Sigh in 2000, a folk-rock record, evidently expected a similar effort with the band's next recording. When Mallonee and his various band mates, primarily Jacob Bradley on bass and Kevin Heuer on drums, instead delivered a valentine to the British pop music that had inspired them in their youth, the label called foul. They coldly abandoned the project, conveniently blaming the world situation after the 9/11 attacks and citing the incongruity of trying to position a hopeful pop record in such times.

The relationship quickly evaporated and, unfortunately, so did the band. They had no record company support, few resources, and no money. Bill Mallonee, prisoner of his calling, was left to continue on as a solo artist.

Aware of this, Mallonee fans must have smiled sardonically upon learning the title of his first solo CD, Fetal Position, which Mallonee recorded in a week with producer Tom Lewis and released on Meat Market Records in early 2002. The title was vintage Bill Mallonee, by turns a naked revelation of his battered spirit and a summoning of energy and will on the cusp of new birth.

Everything about the album—the hastiness of the release; the hardscrabble distribution effort through a small, Internet-based organization called Paste Music—alerted fans to Mallonee's circumstances. But the songs themselves, both the writing and heartfelt delivery, proved the middle-aged performer hadn't relinquished hardearned artistic ground.

Fans rejoiced at the nostalgic, mature soul of his radio-worthy "Life on Other Planets," a song which brought a new hope to his voice while remembering the trials of the past. "Watch love begin to unfold / It's like a story you were once told / When you believed in God and new romantics / And life out there on other planets." The profound "Crescent Moon," a love tract to his wife, demonstrated ever deepening insights into authentic life experience, celebrating his marriage, as well as examining love's sacramental nature. On his first solo effort, Mallonee articulated a notion that is fertile ground for him but uncommon in modern music: the ultimate virtue inherent in everyday struggle.

Before 2002 was over, Mallonee pressed on and recorded a second solo album, Locket Full of Moonlight (Meat Market Records/Paste Music), this time with a new cadre of studio musicians A significantly darker, more brooding effort, Locket shows Mallonee at his bravest despite his battles: a middle-aged troubadour pinning his hope on scant evidence in a younger man's game.

Locket unquestionably contains some of Mallonee's most startling confessionals in songs like "Dirty Job" or "Locket Full of Moonlight (Casual Reprise)." Mallonee life is neither simple nor pretty, and his music is an effort to reconcile himself to that truth. What distinguishes his perspective from many Christian musicians is the candid acknowledgment of his vocation's unforgiving demands. His frequent use of images such as oblivion, outer space, ragged clothing, and disorientation testify to an awareness of his position in secular society.

This, in turn, makes the moments of grace on Locket more poignant. For example, Mallonee picks up where "Crescent Moon" lets off in the aptly-named "Sweetness and Light". Almost as an afterthought, he tosses in a line that seems simply apropos for a love song, but in actuality rings with a far deeper and more substantial truth: "Love can make you better than you really are / Sometimes it happens overnight."

In "Jaws of Life," a rock-out classic reminiscent of the Vigilantes, Mallonee eulogizes his experiences with his old band, but he reflects that something greater than he has extracted him from that wreckage: "Must be Something / Must be Someone bigger than / Pulling me out, jaws of life / From my skin."

The use of the image of the "jaws of life" makes for a striking analogy, one that beautifully encapsulates the most stirring elements of Mallonee's music: vulnerability, human fragility, hardship—and the existence of something greater that can lift every one of us, damaged but not destroyed, from these earthly crucibles.

You Give It All Your Heart…

Heading into 2003, Mallonee had two quality solo recordings under his belt but had enjoyed little national exposure, and he experienced marginal sales, depending primarily on his own website (www.billmallonee.net) and word of mouth. He clearly felt that his new music had not been given its due, so he joined forces with the limited resources of Paste Records (a division of the Paste Music web site), and released his third solo CD, Perfumed Letter, in August. Since the idea was to promote a broader, "national" campaign for Mallonee, the album was a strange concoction: five songs that had appeared previously on Fetal Position, new songs, and one older song from an earlier Vigilantes of Love EP. The result, for much of his fan base, was little more than confusion. The Fetal Position material was barely a year old, the EP song ("Your Bright Future") was strong but obviously displaced from another era in Mallonee's career, and the recent work, while typically vibrant and rich, felt more like a teaser than a satisfying new chapter.

Ironically, the newer material on Letter is some of his best work. The upbeat, spry "Extraordinary Girl" veers perilously close musically to Tom Petty but still contains Mallonee's singular, compassionate perspective: "Come whatever, come what may / I just want to reach you / Where it hurts the most / Hold you just a little closer."

In "Silver Transparent," luminous phrases capture the wonder of the natural world ("stars pinned on a curtain above"), as well as the mystery of pain and suffering ("morphine drips beside your bed").

Sadly, Perfumed Letter failed to generate any national traction for his music or his career. I found myself wondering, not for the first time, whether Mallonee would have the strength and perseverance to carry on.

He did. Before another year was over, Mallonee was taking preorders on his web page for a new recording, financed this time exclusively by the fans' interest. Mallonee hooked up with producer John Keane and recorded the new album, Dear Life, in less than two weeks in Keane's home studio in Athens, Georgia.

I was struck by that title. Dear Life,—with its intriguing comma—suggests continuity with Mallonee's previous release inasmuch as the punctuation changes it from a descriptive phrase to a salutation for correspondence. Dear Life, is another "letter" in one sense, an invitation to his fellow men and women. Yet, for me, the seemingly miniscule detail of that comma also symbolized Mallonee's sui generis approach, which I think other aspiring artists can appreciate. Mallonee's previous release had more or less failed. His response, it seemed to me, was to open up his heart to the source of all grace and power—Life—and, ultimately, to its Author. It is to this source that Mallonee also directs his testimonial.

Dear Life, continued to bring Mallonee's unique worldview into tighter focus, lasering in on the truth behind the surfaces presented to us, and by us, in the world. In the hopeful opening track, "After All This Dust Settles Down," Mallonee expresses his gratitude for, and solidarity with, his listeners—"Here's a way to say thanks / For listening while our record goes around"—and an increased spiritual depth through the use of Marian and Eucharistic allusions. This album also clearly demonstrates an unwillingness to succumb to pessimism. Mallonnee insists on taking stock of the blessings that surrounded him. In "The Kidz on Drugs (Or Life)," a message to one of his sons, he writes: "I hope you will find / And I pray you will see / All the joy that your life brings to me." A father of two precious children myself, I am inspired by this outlook.

In late 2004, Mallonee again began taking pre-orders on his web site to fund the next release Friendly Fire. The purpose of collecting pre-orders for the new CD was, again, to finance the production. This time, there was some delay in getting the recording produced on time, and for a while some negative cross-communication could be seen in forums on VoL/Mallonee-related web sites. The album's title took on an ironic twist.

Eventually, however, the problems were resolved. When I received the CD, I was impressed with the bright tones of John Keane's production, the insightfulness of the writing, and the hopeful notes struck by much of the record.

The title track, "Friendly Fire (No Fight Left in Me)," is one of Mallonee's finest songs. It features a seductively nimble acoustic guitar motif and an outstanding lyric about an emotionally and physically exhausted veteran, a text that stands up firmly alongside anything ever written by the likes of a Bruce Springsteen, a Neil Young. The pained, weary vocal is no stretch for Mallonee, but the harrowed image of a truly beaten man lumbers tiredly through this gem, particularly in forthright reflections on his own inability to love after being damaged in combat:

Mad Dog bombardier
Hell I was mad dog all the time
I could drop that payload
On a Roosevelt dime
But where we are
There is no north star
And it's all dark and uncharted
In our skies

"They say war is hell," the voice adds, "but it ain't nothin' like this."

This song is an excellent representation of Mallonee's gifts, though it does resonate, not surprisingly, with a somber pitch, as do certain other songs. Fortunately, Friendly Fire also contains a healthy sampling of hope and wonder. The optimistic "Second Guessing," the warm-hearted "Apple of Your Eye," and the luminous, fiddle-enriched "Stain Glass Soul" all testify to Mallonee's insistence on finding hope.

Mallonee himself has best expressed his refreshing approach to writing and performing great music in Fetal Position's "You Give It All Your Heart." Inspired by his young son's efforts to compete in baseball, he metaphorically writes, "We may not make it out of the bush leagues / But that's not why we're here." This simple persistence, this determination, runs through each of Mallonee's recordings. During the last four years of following his solo career, these qualities enticed me to venture out at night alone, leaving a wife at home and a little daughter sleeping, to watch Mallonee perform whenever he comes to town. It is not merely a gesture of support. It is quest to be enlightened by a bold creator, one who has borne responsibilities similar to my own, and still manages to foster and develop his art.

Coda

February 19, 2005. I park my little sedan on a busy urban street in West Orange, New Jersey, then wander, alone, up a decrepit stone path to a hulking, age-blighted monolith of an old church. It's late evening, the air is brisk, and there are only one or two floodlights scattered around the church grounds to assist me in navigating the treacherous walkway. I see and hear no other people coming or going and, for a moment, I wonder if I'm there on the correct night. No, there has been no mistake: the church's side-wall double doors, hulking structures of carved wood from another time, are open leading into a kind of anteroom. I wander in and am greeted by a scene familiar to Mallonee fans.

The room is tiny, but it's constructed like the rest of the building: gray hunks of stone, high cathedral ceilings with thick wooden beams, and underfoot, battered hardwood planks dark as mahogany. No more than ten other people share the space with me. A woman wearing church clothes and a Christian-neighbor smile stands ready behind a card table, her tiny metal cafeteria cashbox open to receive my $5 admission. She stamps my hand with a green shape which may or may not be a character from Sesame Street. On my right is another tiny table with a smattering of Bill Mallonee's CDs and a DVD from the Vigilantes of Love on sale. Opposite this is a bar where two middle-aged women, who look like church moms, are setting out plates of brownies and cookies—complementary—beside a large battered coffee percolator. The metallic banging that has assaulted my ears since I came in turns out to be two men setting out rows of standard-issue gray folding chairs. A wooden platform riser, one half-step up, has been placed in a corner. A few acoustic guitars are arranged on it, along with an amplifier or two, a music stand, and a single microphone.

A short woman with dirty blonde curly hair, who looks about my age, chases her toddler around the room, trying to keep him away from the fascinating things onstage. I've seen this woman before; her name is Vesper and she's a musician. She performs briefly tonight before Bill Mallonee's set. Her husband is here, and I recognize him, too—he plays bass for her. I saw them open for the Vigilantes of Love in another part of New Jersey five years before. The child did not exist then. Nor did my daughter.

Forty-five minutes later, Vesper is concluding her lush, quietly-assured set. I enjoy watching her perform; she seems imbued with optimism and sincerity despite the miniscule crowd, no more than forty people. She announces she's just about finished but wants to know if Bill Mallonee has made his way into the room yet. She squints past the shadowy seats in front of her, and someone goes to look for him. During the search, Vesper explains that Mallonee is, in large part, responsible for her taking up songwriting in the first place. Years before, a friend had talked her into taking a chance on a ticket to see Vigilantes of Love perform. "Bill's music changed my life," she swears.

Mallonee's trademark mop-top, artfully mussed and dyed, appears conspicuously among the silhouetted figures lining the back wall. He's listening. Vesper dedicates her final song to Mallonee and bravely performs a lovely, note-perfect rendition of a Vigilantes tune called "Parting Shot"—right in front of the man that wrote and recorded it.

This is one of many, many great Bill Mallonee songs, and as she gracefully renders her version with genuine feeling, it occurs to me that this moment is a true testimonial to what the man's music. Heartfelt words, written from some inner valley of self-doubt years before, can travel mysteriously—and with a kind of heat-seeking emotional power—across open spaces to take forceful possession of a young woman's soul and help to "change" a life. What greater tribute can be made to a man whose sole intention is to find the vein of artistic truth, to tap into it and unearth it, and bring its riches to the surface, revealing treasures the Creator has hewn into the rock, the flesh, the blood, and the earth that surrounds us all every day.

Moments later, Mallonee himself takes a half-step onto the "stage," nods his weary head to the sparse audience, and straps on his instrument. Veins bulge in his sinewy arms and his knotted hands and fingers; crow's feet point toward his eyes. But the lids are closed tight, and whatever lies inside will have to be gleaned through the music itself. Bill Mallonee seems perfectly content to leave things that way as he strums the first chords, cocks his head slightly to one side, and gives himself away, one more time:

"Here's one for the ragged ones and torn…"

 

 

 

 

 

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