Loudon Wainwright III on working with an old friend and playing dress-up in a dead man's clothes
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For nearly 40 years, Loudon Wainwright III has a been a songwriter’s songwriter, wowing a small but passionate cult of fans with tunes like “Motel Blues” and “The Man Who Couldn’t Cry,” which manage to be bitingly funny and crushingly sad at the same time. It’s fitting that Wainwright is currently touring with Richard Thompson, who has similarly written candidly about his personal demons and fractured family relationships with humor and unsparing, self-directed acidity. Before tonight's tour stop at the Cactus Café, The A.V. Club spoke with Wainwright about his friendship with Thompson, which dates back to the late ’70s, and his 2009 album High Wide & Handsome: The Charlie Poole Project, which pays tribute to a highly influential but mostly forgotten country music pioneer with both covers and new, original songs. Wainwright also talked about songwriting, which he likened sex—many, many times.
The A.V. Club: How did you meet Richard Thompson?
Loudon Wainwright III: I think we did a folk festival together in 1978, so I’ve known him for over 30 years. The first time we actually hung out we did a television show in Scotland. At that time he was married and making records with his then-wife Linda Thompson. They put us up in a castle outside of Aberdeen, so we were there throughout the week doing this TV show. Then I made a record in the early ’80s called Fame And Wealth, and I got him to play on it.
AVC: Were you fans of each other before you met?
LW: Well, I was a fan of his. He must have liked what I did because he agreed to play on my records. I didn’t know much about Fairport Convention, but I had heard his first solo record, Henry The Human Fly, and I was fan of that, right down to the picture on the cover.
AVC: Have you ever thought about writing together?
LW: Not really. There are differences between us. I’m nowhere near the guitar player he is, obviously. But we do share sensibilities, and have a similar outlook on the world. I suppose it’s possible, but nobody has had the guts to ask the other person yet.
AVC: You’ve been a fan of Charlie Poole since the early ’70s. What made you want to finally make record about him?
LW: It was [producer] Dick Connette’s idea. He knew I was a fan, and I think he saw some parallels between me and Poole. He wasn’t a songwriter, but there was some overlap with topics, with traveling songs, novelty songs, drinking songs, and mother songs. I grew up in suburban New York, but my mother was from the Deep South and was alive when Charlie Poole was around. She knew that world, so I come at it from there, too.
AVC: It seems you were drawn as much to Poole’s life as his music.
LW: Yeah, he had a very dramatic and short life, and a lot of the drama had to do with the fact that he was a terrible alcoholic. He was a world-class drunk. He died at 39 after a 13-week bender. In that country music tradition, he was self-destructive. That always has an appeal. He was also a complete asshole—self-absorbed and a lousy husband and he beat people up. But he was a great musician.
AVC: You’re known as an autobiographical songwriter, but on this album, critic Greil Marcus says you “put on the dead man’s clothes.” What was it like wearing a dead guy’s clothes?
LW: It was fun to be cross-dresser, a cultural cross-dresser. It was great to go into that world and inhabit it a little bit, and write about it. It was a pleasant excursion. I can relate to him. First of all, I’m a fan. My hope is that this record will hip people to Charlie Poole, because he’s overlooked. He’s as great as Hank Williams, in a different kind of way, and certainly up there with the Carter Family and Jimmie Rodgers, who were his contemporaries. The fact that Charlie Poole is not in the Country Hall Of Fame borders on the criminal as far as I’m concerned. I’d love it if people bought our record, and then got the Charlie Poole box set.
AVC: There’s a cinematic quality to his record. Did you approach it like an actor playing a role?
LW: Not really. I mean, I would wake up in the morning and part my hair the way Charlie Poole parted his hair. [Laughs.] No, I approached it as a songwriter. I can’t really say how it is that I write songs—I just write them the way I write them. I can write about anything, any world. It wasn’t difficult. And I had Dick to write with and serve as an editor.
AVC: You’ve said that earlier in your career you’d write songs quickly and in batches. Does it still work that way for you?
LW: It’s a bit like sex—they come quickly but not in batches.
AVC: How often do you write?
LW: I’m always thinking about trying to write—and in that way it’s also like sex. I’m a songwriter, and my identity is wrapped up in it. I’m just working away here at a pace I can handle, and hopefully I’ll get a bit more.
AVC: Do you still care as much about songwriting as you used to?
LW: It’s still as powerful and magical when it happens. It’s an amazing event writing a song. It’s mysterious, and I don’t quite understand how it happens. But I’m very happy when it happens. So, it’s just like sex all the way down the line.
AVC: Speaking of sex, one of your best songs is “Motel Blues,” which is about hooking up with a groupie on the road. How does “Motel Blues” compare with the reality of your touring life these days?
LW: In that song I’m trying to pick up a girl: “Come up to my motel room and save my life.” Now it’s, “Come up to motel room and show me how to work the wi-fi.” That’s it in a nutshell.
