 His tools are pen, paper and guitar. His inspiration comes from life's little dramas. And what he creates -- to paraphrase a song from Dublin Blue, his second Asylum Records release -- is "stuff that lasts."
Clark's music can't be rushed. That's why a new Guy Clark album is always an event in music circles.
Clark started enthralling us with his Texas-born musical poetry in 1975 with the brilliant and pointedly titled Old No. 1. And 20 years later, we are releasing number eight in the Clark catalog: Dublin Blues, his second Asylum project and follow up to his heralded 1992 release Boats To Build.
The vignettes, sagas and tales are classic Clark -- truthful, insightful, and brilliantly crafted. He is a pioneering figure of American roots music. His songs, "Desperados Waiting For A Train," "Heartbroke," "She's Crazy For Leavin" and "The Last Gunfighter Ballad" have enriched contemporary music and scored hits for a host of country artists including Rodney Crowell, Ricky Skaggs, The Highwaymen, and Vince Gill.
And his multi-talent is evident again on Dublin Blues. It is a thoughtful statement, by a major talent who continues to entertain, challenge and inform.
"I have certain standards of what I think is a good song," Clark explains. "It should be as good as anything. And one of the things I've always tried to do is make sure the lyrics work on paper, without the music. That they stand on their own."
The son of a well-read and principled lawyer, Clark was born in the desert town of Monahans, in West Texas. He was taught early to love and respect the melody of the spoken word.
"My whole background is poetry, literature, and that whole thing, and I just can't bring myself to sing something that's not really good," he says. "My percentage of keepin' songs is pretty low."
The 10 finely-chiseled songs on Dublin Blues are a worthy annex to the collection of Clark's best. With two exceptions -- "Randall Knife," a bittersweet tribute to his late father and the darkly ironic "Hangin' Your Life On The Wall" -- Clark penned all of the songs in the span following Boats To Build.
"Writing is not magic," Clark says. "It doesn't just happen. There's a certain amount of discipline involved with it, as loose as it might be. One of the first disciplines I learned about songwriting is when you have a little snippet of an idea, write it down. No matter how good you think it is. No matter how sure you are, I'll never forget this, in five minutes, it's gonna be gone if you don't write it down."
He's known for furiously scribbling on cocktail napkins and the backs of in-flight magazines. Just about everything he writes comes from personal experience. "There's a certain amount of theatrical and poetic license, which I allow myself," he says, "But the germ of it is pretty true. You just can't make that shit up. The truth is stranger, and more interesting, than fiction. So why not use it?"
Occasionally, Clark has to just shut up and let his muse speak to him. "They sometimes seem to have a life of their own," he says of his songs. There is no formula. Clark allows the song to develop organically, over time, and he never over works a lyric. When a song is done, it's done.
On Dublin Blues, Clark sows fertile ground demonstrating his sentimental side on "Tryin' To Try," "Randall Knife," "Stuff That Works" and the melancholy title track and then alternating humor with pathos on "Black Diamond Strings," "The Cape" and "Hangin' Your Life On The Wall."
"I think humor is just as valid an emotion as tears or the blues," Clark says. "Even in 'Randall Knife,' which is one of the most serious songs I ever wrote, there's a couple of little chuckles in there. To me, it's just part of it. I enjoy singing songs like that, they have a little wry twist to 'em."
A prime example of that verbal parlay is "Hank Williams Said It Best," a lyrical tour de force in the form of a litany of contradictions, one after another, deceptively simple -- like all of Guy Clark's finest songs -- with a fiercely beating heart underneath.
And it's that heart that shows itself best when Guy Clark performs at some of the finest music rooms in the country. Intimate settings with minimal accompaniment: Clark, the songs, a guitar, and maybe a bass.
His onstage partner is Travis Clark, his 28-year-old son. Travis' close-cropped hair and Elvis Costello glasses make him a rather incongruous partner to his craggy and towering dad. Musically, however, they go together like a matched set of saddlebags.
"I love playing with him," Clark says of Travis, obviously proud of his son and a career that has prospered long enough to support a second Clark on the road. "It's the most fun I've ever had playing. I don't tell him what to play, and I don't tell him what to sing. There's a certain familial buzz that goes on that's unspoken. We never rehearse, we just start playin' a song."
Clark the craftsman, passing along his art. But after eight albums, 20 years and countless road miles, has he had enough? Will he run out of things to say? "I wake up every day with that," he admits. "But writing songs, boy that's a lifetime's work."
"It's not like you ever get to be the best, and it's not like you ever get through. It's kind of like the ultimate job security. I've got a lifelong task here."
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