Tune Prism Cover Artist Spotlight: Lord Huron and the Long Lost Sounds of
Yore Words and Memories by Tubbs Tarbell
Friends,
I been thinking a lot about the past again. I guess if you know me, that’s nothing new. Yeah, I
smell what you’re sniffin’ at: “Oh boy, here goes ol’ Tubbs again, ramblin’ about those good
ol’ bygone days of yore.” Well, sure, I’ll allow you that one. Maybe I do tend to take a good
hard glance into the rearview before I step my boot on the gas. But don’t we all? Or shouldn’t
we, in any case?
It just seems to me that, these days, the past is everywhere you look. Hell, take another peek at
that sentence again. The first time you read it is already in the past. Funny how time just keeps
clickin’ along. These days, anyway.
So, sometime in what’s now the not-too distant past, I was sittin’ in my usual seat inside
Whispering Pines, cozied up to a glass of something cozy, when, from outta nowhere, this
particular tune crept into my ear. It was a funny thing, because it immediately felt familiar to
me, as a song that creeps into your ear usually has to be—especially for somebody like me who
don’t write ’em…I just roll ’em. (You’ve heard me say that one more than a few times, no
doubt.) But then the more I thought about it, and the more I listened to this little tune janglin’
around upstairs, I realized that I couldn’t place it as something I’d ever heard before. (And take
my word for it: the ol’ upstairs is a titanium steel trap for tunes, even now.) It was a conundrum.
That little number stuck with me for more than a few days. I’d be doing something mindless—
scrubbin’ my cup, combin’ my hat—when all of a sudden, here it came again: It’s hard to make
friends when you’re half in the grave, but I ain’t dead yet and I’ve got something to say. It was
the loveliest thing, and dang me if it didn’t keep sounding chummier and chummier. It was
sublime—that drivin’ jangle of the guitar, the steady thump of the drums, those breezy, lilting
voices—but I just couldn’t place it. Could it have been that ol’ Tubbs here had somehow
tapped into that cosmic eternal and unwittingly written his first tune without even knowing it?
A week (or was it a month?) went by and the tune never went too far from my head. There’s a
stranger in my eyes again… It almost got to where I was more used to the tune being there
under my hat than my own face. …I swear to God I don’t know him. But then it happened,
somethin’ I’ll never forget for as long as I live: My little tune came to life before my very eyes.
Now, be patient. I’ll tell you how.
That day, one of my all-time favorite acts happened to be booked in Whispering Pines for a
recording spell, those good-time bootscooters and rhythm rascals known as Lord Huron. As
always, the boys showed up early—but not earlier than ol’ Tubbs here—and made haste
toward the studio’s live room.
“Howdy, fellers,” says I. “Headed for the big room, I see.” (If Whispering Pines was a church—it
ain’t, mind you, but if it were—the live room would be the holy pulpit, I reckon.)
Ben (he’s the singer) just looked at me, touched the brim of his hat, and nodded. “Thought
we might try somethin’ different this time, good buddy,” says he.
So I just gave him my grandest grand welcome and stepped aside, happy to have them back.
Those boys know what they’re doin’, having made quite a few of their records with us. But the
live room, this was gonna be a first, and a real treat. I tried my best to keep my grin to a simmer,
sat down at the board, and watched as Mark, Miguel, Tom, and Ben started tunin’ her up
If you’ve ever had the pleasure of recording at the Pines, then you know that nothin’ in the place
is off limits. Guitars, cymbals, pianos, pedal steel, mandolins, microphones,
saxophones—what’s ours is ours, that’s my motto. And as the Huron boys are basically my own
brothers by now— well, nephews, maybe, but who’s countin’—I was glad to see their hands on
all of it. I even heard ’em talk about recording a gigantic string and woodwind orchestra in some
dang place like Sweden or somewhat…those fellers really shoot the moon, I tell ya.
I’d barely had time to pour my coffee and hit the big red button when they settled into a dusky
groove so quick I could hardly believe it. Must have been all that time playing out on the road
together—even headlined that dang Bowl they got out in Hollywood since last I laid eyes. Hell,
they’ve known each other since grade school so it don’t surprise…that’s the rumor, anyway.
Now, I’ve loved all their hits—“The Night We Met,” “Time to Run,” “When the Night is
Over”—but this new stuff they started in on just sounded…well, it just sounded like something
eerily familiar, as it were. Like somethin’ from a past life I’d heard before, but brand new, all
at once. Like a note plucked long ago that had moseyed through time to finally belly up to my
bar once and for all. It was a conundrum.
The first number they called “The Moon Doesn’t Mind,” and I say it reminded me of one of
those cowboy pictures where the lone horseman is singin’ his heart out to the audience from atop
his brave steed. But something about the pang in Ben’s voice made it seem like that feeling was
more lonesome than just simply lone—or maybe it was just my view from the sidestage, as it
were. Maybe the light catches a singer a little different when you’re not staring at him head-on,
or even through a lens. I always did wonder if those cowboys were really as rootin’ and tootin’
as they looked on TV. I gave the boys a good round of applause before they launched into a real
sunset of a song they called “Mine Forever,” a swinging, full-on heart-renderer with a bubbly
sound. All of a sudden I heard handclaps and female voices—I swear those ladies must have
risen up outta the floorboards! Never saw ’em come in, and didn’t see ’em leave. That’s just the
magic of the Pines, I suppose. Door knockin’s for strangers.
The next one, “Love Me Like You Used To,” brought to ear of one of those classic lovelorn
country ballads, like one sung by Handsome Scott or even ol’ Roy Casey himself. “Long Lost”
and “I Lied” both slowed the tempo down a notch or two, but sounded no less grand. The boys
were really firin’ on all cylinders that day, I tell ya, filling the air of that grand live room—and
my own soul—with those tales of hard luck, heartbreak, and redemption. It was as if the boys had
become conduits for the spirits of the room and were using ‘em to tap into that same cosmic
eternal I’ve always felt—known—was hovering around inside Whispering Pines.
I was feeling pretty fine. Our old pine clock on the wall had long stopped tickin’ and the boys
surely didn’t need any help from little ol’ me, so I helped myself to a little something cozy and
kicked my boots up on the board. And it was then, in that instant, that I heard it…my tune.
All messed up with nowhere to go, I stare at myself in the mirror alone… It’s hard to
make friends when you’re half in the grave…
That drivin’ guitar jangle, the steady drum thump, those breezy, liltin’ voices…it was all
unmistakable. My tune! It had somehow crept out from that titanium trap I keep under my hat
and sneaked into the live room to serenade me from behind the glass studio wall. Time seemed
to stand still, even more than it usually does around here. It was like some long-lost dream come
to life, a forgotten classic from a parallel dimension, the echo of a memory that wasn’t mine. But
the feeling was real. READ MORE +
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