Features

7 Walkers: Fire on the Mountain, Fire on the Bayou

Photo by Dave Vann

The group’s studio debut swings all over the place, finding subterranean connections between the 1950s skip of “Sue from Bogalusa,” a bouncing grin-inducer like “New Orleans Crawl” and a meditative love song like “Evangeline”—fearlessly moving between divergent styles. Most of 7 Walkers was captured in first or second takes and that initial on-the-floor energy was massaged in post-production by Papa and Hubbard, who inserted dub ghosts, radio snippets, warming echoes and other small, inspired touches that develop a great deal of the album’s lingering atmosphere.

The four-piece configuration allows listeners to experience Kreutzmann’s playing in a much more direct way than at almost any time in his career save for the stretch in 1970s when drummer/percussionist Mickey Hart wasn’t playing with the Dead.

“I’m having a great time doing this,” enthuses Kreutzmann. “I’ve never gotten to play regularly with a New Orleans musician like George and this also fulfills my dream of playing music that feels like this. I love the speed of playing in a four-piece. In the early ‘70s, I could go in any direction I wanted and the music would change almost immediately. That was fun and this is even more pronounced in that way.”

7 Walkers is cut in the mold of Creedence Clearwater Revival, Little Feat, The Band and other late ‘60s/early ‘70s pioneers that persistently stretched rock’s boundaries, often veering wildly between styles on a single vinyl side, yet insisting that all of these elements are rock, in their own way.

“I never go in thinking, ‘This is a rock song,’ or God forbid, ‘This is a pop song,’” says Kreutzmann. “Pop music drives me nuts. I love in [the movie] The Big Lebowski when Jeff Bridges is in the back of the cab and says, ‘I fucking hate The Eagles.’ I’m all over Jeff. He’s got that right.” [Laughs.]

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There’s a striking darkness to some of Robert Hunter’s lyrics for 7 Walkers. For instance, take the chorus to “King Cotton Blues,” which Willie Nelson sings on the album: “Shotgun is too merciful/ Hanging is too good/ Drowning too uncertain/ And poison is too slow/ To snuff a worthless widow’s son whose time has come to go.”

“The character in this song reminds me of a couple other characters in Hunter songs like ‘Loser’ and ‘Candyman,’” says Papa. “It’s great to inhabit these rogues. I’ve always loved murder ballads and the like. I always knew Johnny Cash was a good person, but it intrigued me when he’d sing about shooting somebody in Reno just to watch ‘em die.” [Laughs.]

These lonesome figures resonate for Papa as he left home at age 17 with a romanticized vision of being a worldly vagabond like Woody Guthrie or Bob Dylan. The charm of life on the road quickly wore off as he was repeatedly hustled, ripped off and roughed up. “Ultimately, it was a great experience but it showed me the world is full of unsavory characters, which toughened me up and made me streetwise,” he says of those days. “But, I’m still attracted to these grifters and rogues.” (His two favorite movies as a kid were Bonnie & Clyde and The Wild Bunch.)

“Robert [Hunter]’s imagination just seems vast and boundless,” he continues. “I’m constantly surprised at the way he views the world we live in and the fresh takes he comes up with on so many subjects. These songs lend themselves to grooves. All the best music has a swing to it.”