Originally published in
LEFT OF THE DIAL magazine
issue #1, Nov.2001

From Detroit Inner City Blues to Zen and the Art of the Studio:
An Interview with the MC5’s Wayne Kramer.

David Ensminger: So you’re working with David Was again?
Wayne Kramer: Yeah, it’s that kind of thing. Sometimes I think, at least on a couple of songs, they’re too linear, and I need to chop them up into parts and put them together, like more of a William S. Burroughs cut-up technique. Sometimes I happen to go in a narrative, and I want to break that up.

Like a sound collage?
I’d like it to be. It’s the process which I enjoy so much. It’s problem solving. You got these amount of elements, so it’s like, how do I get this to go a better way? And I don’t know what that is until I roll my sleeves up and get some mud on the uniform.

With the making of Citizen Wayne, you said you tried to use the studio as an instrument, while David would “merge Wayne’s spontaneity with his digital veg-o-matic.” Are you once again using the studio in the same way?
Yeah, it’s a tool. They’re all tools. The music itself is a tool. Language is a tool. It’s all trying to carry a message, something about wherever I am at the moment. If I can be honest about that, then chances are someone else is at that moment. And if I do it right, and send a message to that person that you know, you are not alone, you’re not the only one that feels that way. That’s what great art has always done for me. That’s what great literature does for me, that’s what great painting does for me, that’s what great music has done for me. When I hear James Brown or John Coltrane, I don’t feel so alone. That’s what I’m talking about.

When you capture that moment in your life perfectly, does it then transcend that moment and become universal?
Well, I don’t think there is any perfectly. I just do the best that I can. Does it become universal? You know, that’s not for me to judge.

But when you hear Sun Ra or John Coltrane, does that happen for you?
Oh yeah. That speaks to me, absolutely.

What exactly is the Mad for the Racket project, which features Stewart Copeland, Clem Burke, and Brian James?
Well, Mad for the Racket is a real experiment. I used to run into Brian when I was on tour in Europe, and he kept saying let’s do something, let’s make a record. Of course, my standard response is: When? Where?

Where’s the budget?
Yeah, let’s go. So finally we were together in L.A. and we wrote a record. We got together for ten days and wrote the record, then it was an easy matter to get friends to come down to the studio and record it. So the record is pretty good, I think. It’s real guitar rock. It doesn’t stretch too far. Brian tends to be very true to his vision of punk rock.

Well, he’s from the Damned.
Right. He was the lead guitar player in the Damned. I always try and push something stranger, but we share a lot of common ground, so it was a fun project to do. So we’ll just see what happens. We’ll put it out later this year and we’ll see if people like it. If we can, we’d like to do some touring.

Would it be fair to compare it to your work with Dodge Main?
Not dissimilar. Of course, it’s new material. It’s songs Brian and I wrote. With Dodge Main we had a fair number of covers. Yeah, you’re right, you made a good connect the dots there.

You once said about punk, “Musically, they didn’t show me anything. The Ramones and Blondie were just more of the same.” Have Clem Burke and the rest just come forward enough in their musical style that there is now fertile ground to work with?
No, I don’t think so. I’m not looking to them for that. Cause the real heavy lifting is in the writing, so I have to write a song, or construct a song in a way that is more stretched out in order for the musicians to take it to the next level. If I’m writing a straight up guitar rock song, the form almost requires that you lay that beat down in a traditional fashion. And that’s not a bad thing, and when someone does it well, like Copeland or Burke, then it’s a joy.

How much of you on stage is that kid you were at age 9 jumping around with a broomstick to Chuck Berry tunes? Is it as fresh and invigorating as listening to music back then?
The thing you are talking about is original joy. There’s always the elusive striving to capture that. Of course, you can’t. Joy just passes by you, the best you can do is grab a kiss as it passes. That’s what we try to do in a recording session, capture original joy. And that’s what I try to do in performance, which is keep my mind open and be there right then in the day I’m in and the moment I’m in, in the song I’m in, and in the solo I am playing, so that I can grab a kiss from that original joy as it passes by. That’s the long answer, and the short answer is yes.

If you could go back in time, you once said you’d like to go to the NYC jazz scene from around 1950–55.
On some level, I identify with that lifestyle. They played these clubs, they had a camaraderie, there was a kind of club that they were part of that no one could get in unless you were one of them. I don’t know, somehow I find that a little romantic. I’m intrigued with the idea. We’re all so crazy to be musicians in the first place. There’s a connection amongst musicians, and I guess I just romanticize that a bit.

But sometimes there’s not enough connection, as in the case of when you played with Johnny Thunders. He had a different away of approaching the music than you. So even within the culture of musicians, do you see things differently?
Absolutely, sure. We’re not all from a cookie cutter. We run the gamut of personality types as in any other walk of life. Sure, there are musicians I prefer not to hang out with (laughs). But amongst my circle of men and women I consider my friends in music, when I’m with them, and we’re working, there’s no other place I’d rather be.

It’s almost a perfect place?
It doesn’t get any better. If I’m in a recording studio, and I’ve got David Was there, and some of the guys from L.A, or some of the players from Detroit, and we’re doing something that I don’t think is too bad, there’s no place else I’d rather be in that moment.

Would that include playing on Simon Stokes new record?
Absolutely. I’m in the studio, I’m playing my guitar, I’m working with people I like, and they like me, and we’re getting the chance to do the kinds of things we like to do. I’m very grateful to be able to do these kinds of things in this life I have today. I’m grateful to live any kind of life. I’m happy to be anywhere. By right, I shouldn’t be anywhere. I should be six feet under. So I’m happy to be anywhere.

For people who are not that familiar with jazz, how would you describe the difference between Sun Ra and John Coltrane?
I’ll put it to you this way, John Gilmore was one of the great tenor saxophone players that was with Sun Ra for twenty-five years, maybe thirty years, when he got out of the service. He played in the army band, and he said that his reading was really strong, and he was trying to decide who he wanted to go with. He got an offer to play with Coltrane, or with Mingus, or Monk, and he decided to go with Sun Ra because Sun Ra’s shit was more stretched out. In the pantheon of truly cutting edge jazz world, Sun Ra was head and shoulders above everyone. And had been for years, for years. I mean Sun Ra ran his band on a whole other level than the rest of us tried to exist in music. Well, people thought Sun Ra played free music, and it was all this kind of noise, but Sun Ra was only interested in discipline. That was all completely controlled, everyone knew exactly what they were doing. In fact, Sun Ra wasn’t interested in freedom, he was interested in discipline. Not external discipline, but self-discipline.

I suppose you really can’t sound free without an element of discipline.
That’s the thing. Freedom isn’t actually free. If you think of freedom as a coin, on one side it says freedom, and on the other side of the coin it says self-control, discipline, or something like that.

Your songs often de-romanticize the dope fiend aspect of rock‘n’ roll, but also seem to de-romanticize the idea of the lone, mad artist creating in a vacuum, or by him or herself in the corner. It seems like music for you happens in a community.
I think it probably does. I’d agree with that. It’s being part of, as opposed to separate from. Absolutely, I mean I write these songs so I could to them myself over and over again. I want people to hear them, and be part of a lexicon.

You’ve described the old MC5 audience as the greaser, factory rat contingent back in Detroit. What is your audience now?
That’s a good question, man. It’s something that I really try and study, because it’s important for me to figure out who the heck is my audience. And I think they are 35–50, I think they’re older. I think they are music fans that have grown up with rock ’n’ roll that aren’t teenagers, but still want to rock. They are basically uninterested in what’s happening in popular music right now because it insults their intelligence. I think my audience is working people and professional people, probably a lot of people that have grown kids now, and that are still fans. They don’t go to clubs, but they go to concerts on the weekends. They get a sitter, and if you let them know enough time in advance, they’ll come out. I also think my fans are archivists and completists.

~ Wayne Kramer ~ Photos by William Nettles ~

What’s your relationship with Epitaph at this point?
I did my contractual commitment to Epitaph, and after 4 albums we mutually agreed that Wayne would make his own albums. We left on the best possible terms. I’m still very close with everyone at Epitaph, from Brett to Andy, to the men and women in the mailroom. They’re all still my friends. I see them all regularly, and I still consider myself an Epitaph artist at heart because the things I learned at Epitaph about running a record company ethically and honestly. It’s the same way I am running my own label now, the same principles I learned by watching how Brett ran the company, and that’s how I want to run my label. The center never holds, and however things are today, they’re not going to be the same four of five years from now. I knew going in that there was a chance that in four of five years no one knew what was going to happen. Would Epitaph still exist? Would they be huge? Would they be bought out? Would they go under? This is the nature of this business that we’re in. The fact is that they are doing pretty well. I was there at the time when I was a real anomaly at Epitaph because I’m actually not a punk. Epitaph fans are basically about 7–13 year old white suburban boys. As much as I like to think that the young guys would appreciate my work, I’m not writing to them, I’m not playing for them. I deal with grown up issues, I’m an adult at this stage in my life. So I’m not talking about what they are interested in. It was a little bit of a hard fit, because the one thing Epitaph knows how to do well is sell records to those fans. It’s not really my fan base. We were just talking about who are the people who buy Wayne’s records, and they’re not necessarily 7–13 year old white suburban boys. They’re not. But I do feel good because we were like the snowplow that opened the door for Tom Waits and Tricky. And for Epitaph to be able to stretch out and do other things besides Southern California style punk rock.

Your manager described your Wayne Kramer Presents Beyond Cyberpunk as a “thinking man’s punk record.” Would you describe it the same way?
I suppose. I was just trying to broaden the definition of punk, show that it wasn’t all beats at 160 rpm and flashing guitar, that a mid-tempo ballad could actually be a punk song, or a twisted up funk track could actually be punk, or swamp metal could be punk. I think it has much more to do with a sense of self-determination and self-efficacy that it does a musical style.

You wrote “Sharkskin’s Suit” for Charles Bukowski, did a recording of a Poe poem, and early on were highly influenced by Allen Ginsberg. How do these writers shape your own art, not just music, but now your writing?
It’s like how I wanted to learn and play guitar like Chuck Berry. In my literary efforts it’s the same kind of thing. I’ve always admired writers, and wanted to be a writer. William Burroughs, Ernest Hemingway, and great crime fiction writers like Elmore Leonard. I love what these guys can do with character and dialogue. I aspire to that, and in song writing I have been blessed to have people in my life like Rob Tyner and John Sinclair and I study Bob Dylan and Tom Waits' lyrics. These guys are gifted lyricists, even Jackson Browne is a truly gifted lyricist. These are people I admire and I aspire to their level of competence and their level of vocabulary in the craft of songwriting. I guess I’m continuing to stretch that into my prose and the kinds of things I have been writing, like book reviews and memoirs. We are working on a couple of scripts, so it’s just the continuing work in a creative lifetime. It’s not all that remarkable, it really is 90 percent perspiration, and 10 percent inspiration. You have to do the work. I can only go along so long without writing a song and then I start to feel bad. I go, you know Wayne, it’s time to write a song, you gotta go write a song, other wise you’re going to get in a crabby mood here. It’s the same with all of it.

We both grew up with a Midwest work ethic, where work matters, it is important, even a healthy part of our life.
I had no doubt it’s my Detroit, blue collar, factory upbringing. I was basically raised by my mother, and she put such a premium on work. She worked hard all her life. It’s just what you did. No one gave you nothing. If you wanted anything in this world, you had to work for it. There were no entitlements you know. And that was reinforced in the neighborhood, in the city. Detroit is a city that is all about work. I found, as I got older, that there was honor in work. There was esteem in work. Even in the beginning of the MC5 we applied all these principles to how we ran our band.

Wayne Kramer, second left ~ photo Leni Sinclair

People don’t realize how much work is in rock and roll.
It’s a job when you’re playing five sets a night, six nights a week (laughs). Forty-five on, fifteen off.

People always talk about the R&B and jazz influences on the MC5, but your mom’s boyfriend used to bring home Patsy Cline and Hank Williams records. Have people missed out on the fact that country music is also part of your musical roots?
Well, it turns out it is. I kind of denied it for years, because I was such a staunch rock ’n’ roller, then I became an avant-gardist, but when I look over the complete path I have been down, those songs are important to me. Those artists and those Nashville guitar players. Talk about lyric construction, some of that stuff is fabulous, you know.

“No Easy Way Out” could easily be a country song.
You’re right. I haven’t thought of it that way, but that’s interesting.

In Fred Goodman’s Mansion on the Hill he discusses the manufactured blue collar image of Bruce Springsteen. When a guy like Springsteen writes a song like “My Hometown” then buys a million dollar home, should it matter to us, or should only the song matter?
It’s not up to me to say what matters for you. I just don’t have a problem with it. Art is very broad, and inclusive, not exclusive. I don’t think that it’s okay that songs are exactly true to your life and not okay to write a complete fabrication, and anything between. Let’s keep our feet on the ground. There’s real evil in the world. Whether Bruce lives in a mansion and writes about his poor upbringing is not part of it (laughs). Who cares, really. If you write a good song, great. If you live in a nice house, good for you. How many great songs are there that Holland-Dozier-Holland wrote that didn’t have anything to do with anybody’s real life, but that we all love. That are important to us. Who was Bernadette anyway? Did she look over her shoulder or not? What was she looking at? What was she running from?

You mentioned Hemingway earlier. You lived in Key West for awhile. What was that like?
I had been living in Manhattan for ten years and reached a point where I felt like I needed a change. I didn’t feel like I was any closer to being happy or being rich, or whatever. I didn’t know what I was doing really. I was kind of like in a rut. I thought, let me go down there. I met a woman who lived down there and she invited me down. We ended getting married. It was a nice lifestyle for a couple years. But it’s a little teeny island at the end of the road, and I’m way too ambitious to have been able to stay there. I want to make movies, I have a lot of records to make, and a lot of songs to write, and a lot of bands to produce.

Without that time you spent there, do you think you would have been as productive as you are now?
I think everything we do fits part of a larger plan. If we’re growing at all, change can be a good thing. I know I was on some kind of a path, whether I knew it or not. Moving to Key West was part of it.

Will your lyrics be even more political now that Bush is in office, or turn towards the personal?
I think I’m interested in both. If the last election taught me anything it was about the illusion of choice. That there is no real choice in the world, certainly in America, about anything that is important. Like health care, we don’t have any choice in that. Electricity, utilities, those kinds of things that are important… We don’t have any choice in that. Media, we have no say in any of that. Is it a Republican or Democrat? Well, what’s the difference? They’re both corporate shills. The things we have choice in are like 31 flavors of ice cream, 50 kinds of bagels. You get 10 different kinds of sneakers, but that stuff doesn’t matter. There’s only five record companies. Choices on the important things are all narrowed down and controlled by gigantic multinational corporations. That’s the fact. We have no choice. We have the illusion of choice, like we all go vote. And believe me I vote, and I’d vote every day if they’d let me. I don’t believe it’s going to make much difference. I haven’t seen where it makes much difference.

You described the Citizen Wayne songs as auto-mythogized…
Auto-mythological.

Is that still where you are going in your work?
Well, there was a lot of looking back on that record, I was trying to tell mythological versions of what my experiences have been, but I think if anything, I’m looking more inward now. So that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to take a hard look at who I really am. What the hell am I doing? What am I really all about? What am I really interested in, what do I really care about? Can I be honest enough? Do I have enough courage to look really inside and say what I really see? I think that’s what I’m trying to do.

While imprisoned in Lexington, KY you worked with Red Rodney, who took you from being a straight rocker to a jazzier player. Is there anybody influencing you today like Red Rodney did then?
I have a lot of contemporaries. I’m pretty close to guys like Chris Vrenna, or John X, or David Was remains very close to me creatively. All these guys are doing things, they’re showing a high degree of creativity and courage and pushing music into new spaces. Releasing it from old ideas. It’s not the same as my relationship with Red, because that was more the fundamentals of music, the language of music, but I hold these guys pretty much in the same esteem and I feel like we have a real healthy petri dish that we’re trying to operate in.

This interview (c) 2001 by David Ensminger

Wayne Kramer's new release on Muscletone Records "Adult World"
Wayne's first solo CD release in over 5 years. It's a masterpiece. Full lyric sheet. 10 songs that'll slay you.
"...'Adult World' shows Kramer taking another brilliant, fearless leap into the future--and landing on his feet."
(Jaan Uhelski, RS Online)

Acknowledgements to LEFT OF THE DIAL's publisher David Ensminger and designer Russell Etchen for their help and kindness and to Margaret Saadi and Wayne Kramer.
Thanks to Jeff Gold.

Contact LEFT OF THE DIAL's staff at leftofthedialmag@hotmail.com.

Wayne Kramer's official site: http://waynekramer.com

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