By Steve Brennan
By Ashley Zimmerman
By Michele Eve Sandberg
By Abel Folgar
By Ashley Zimmerman
By New Times Staff
By Abel Folgar
By Laurie Charles
During a downtown blues festival in a Midwestern city, Kelly Joe Phelps is giving an afternoon performance. The summertime breeze is absent, replaced by a furnace-blast of superheated desert dryness imported from Phoenix. There's no shade at all; the outdoor concert is held on the blacktop of an elementary school's grounds. Looking completely enervated, Phelps sweats while he seems practically ready to melt into his guitar. The air's so hot it shimmies as it rises from the asphalt past the red-brick school into the cloudless sky. Phelps, in jeans, workboots, a red-checked shirt, and porkpie hat, holds his guitar on his lap as if it were a recalcitrant child ready to squirm away. The heat seems ready to cauterize him, but Phelps -- head bowed, mumbling something about his final resting place and where he wants to go when he dies -- shivers as if a crow were crossing his grave. For a minute, it feels as chilling as a frozen February night.
"I remember that crazy thing!" Phelps says when reminded of that afternoon, already eight years gone. "A dumb idea is what that was about! Sure was hot in that parking lot."
That's an atypically loquacious retort from Phelps, still lying in bed this morning in a Best Western in Janesville, Wisconsin. It's not even 9 in the morning yet, and Phelps -- who played a show last night and has a lot of driving to do today -- sounds rumpled and bleary. Much of Phelps' roadwork takes place in Europe, where he's in demand as a well-known and well-respected ambassador of Americana. England, Ireland, Holland, Italy, France, and Sweden have become regular stops.
"They focus more on [American roots music] and take it less for granted," he says, "whereas it seems to be in the shadows a bit more here."
Phelps began his career with a purity of sound and vision as raw as the tailings from a mine, but refined, polished, perfect. Lead Me On, his 1994 debut, consists only of his burnished slide guitar, heavy-lidded half-speed baritone, and a "stomp-box."
"That was kind of a goofy idea," he explains. "Back then, I used to carry around this wine box and put my left foot up on it, so the neck of the guitar was level. But it got to be dead weight after a while, so I stopped carrying it. But I used to kinda click and clack on it with my foot, just to make some noise. But my picking technique has changed a lot since then. Most of the rhythmic stuff you hear on Lead Me On is actually my right hand on top of the guitar rather than on the box. For whatever reason, I don't smack the guitar as much as I used to, because I beat up a couple of 'em. It's not really healthy for a guitar."
His initial style of fingerpicking blew listeners away -- even the Edge has taken notice -- due to its fascinating, faultless technique. But before adapting the slow burn of acoustic blues, Phelps was all about playing fast -- developing a studious style influenced by the modern math-jazz of Ornette Coleman and Anthony Braxton. That brush with intellectualism didn't lead Phelps further down the path of difficult playing but closer to the traditional delta blues of Robert Pete Williams. By traveling way, way out before swinging back to the center of it all, Phelps can claim he's been to at least one pole, like an explorer. As he grew to understand his instrument inside and out, he became aware he didn't have to play fast or loose with its vocabulary to get his point across.
To hear Phelps tell it, however, his playing isn't that special. "My dad got me started when I was about 12, I guess," he says with a yawn. "He showed me what he knew, and some friends at school showed me what they knew, and I just started piecing it all together."
As a songwriter, Phelps tells stories -- studded with details like the smell of boiled coffee, a light bulb on a back porch, a pack of Camel Lights, a cardboard box of batteries hidden in a tire swing -- that revolve around "small-town living, certainly," he says. "Just because I grew up in one. I grew up in Summer, Washington, which is south of Seattle and east of Tacoma, butted up against the first part of the rise toward Mt. Rainier. I was born in '59, and my parents listened to a lot of country-western in the '60s, people like Ernest Tubbs, Buck Owens, Hank Williams. I have a sister, five years older, and I listened to her Beatles records."
Unlike Ben Harper, whose populist, rock-inflamed slide-guitar magic has won him a deep and wide audience, Phelps' clientele is merely deep. His work reaches levels that Tab Benoit or Anders Osborne and their technically laudable but hollow efforts will never plumb. Phelps -- quiet, well-read, and oddly funny in a dry, self-deprecating way -- doesn't make excuses for his virtuosity or keep it obscured. He's even released how-to DVDs revealing his fingerpicking and slide techniques.