Tracy Nelson

There are singers who never get the recognition they deserve.  In fact, they're all over the place . . . but I don't want to get into a list.  I find as days go by (years, actually), that there is one that keeps rising in my estimation of greatness, one who grabs me like no other, who has the instrument and artistic ability to do what very few can do:  move you.

Tracy Nelson grew up in Madison, Wisconsin where she started singing as a teenager.  She was a wee little thing, a tiny '60s hippie girl in a long dress and Peggy Liipton hair.  But the sound that came out of her was anything but small.  It was a rich, smooth roar, a chocolate covered steamroller of a voice, a blast from a Peterbilt filtered through lace and heartache.  This little bitty girl had a sound that fit far better with the rich gospel and blues wailers of another era than with the psychedellia swirling all around her.

Of course, Janis Joplin was the annointed queen of the blues at the time and once she found the spotlight it stayed crazy-glued to her until her death.  Meanwhile Tracy and her band, Mother Earth quietly released an album or two or three.  They are classics, with songs like 'Mother Earth' and 'Down So Low' going instantly into that little section of heaven where the greatest music of all time is housed for eternity. 

A move to Hashbury got the band regular gigs at the Fillmore but left them sad and lonely for the green hills of another space.  It wasn't long before they packed up and moved to Tennessee, where Tracy bought the small farm where she lives to this day. 

The decades passed and she released a handful of solo records, all lauded by the critics and cherished by those few who found them, but largely ignored by the machine that is popular music.  In 1974, she recorded a Loretta Lynn/Conway Twitty tune, 'After the Fire is Gone,' with Willie Nelson.  As the song became a hit and earned a Grammy nomination, rumors swirled that Willie and Tracy were somehow related.  This, of course was not true, but continued to chase the two even after Willie declared that they were the illegitimate offspring of Ozzie and Harriett. 

She had another close brush with the spotlight fifteen years later when she recorded the album, 'Sing It,' with Marcia Ball and Irma Thomas -- two more largley overlooked talent tornadoes.  The record was Grammy nominated. 

It was about this time that I saw her in New York.  I was doing a consulting gig there, commuting back and forth between coasts.  She was performing at the Bitter End, and when I saw the tiny ad, I raced to get a ticket.  The small venue was hardly packed, but the faithful were enthusiastic,   including Paul Schaffer who sat like royalty at a viewing stand just behind me. 

The tiny  girl who blasted me into the stratosphere 30 years earlier was no longer tiny.  She'd filled out to match her voice and was wonderfully comfortable in her skin.  I had gooseflesh for 90 minutes that night as she sang her stories and pulled each one of us into her heart and soul.  She was delicate and she was roaring; she was subtle and she was soaring.  I consider it one of the most significant performances of my life. 

This past year I went to my local Tower Records and found her 'Live from Cellblock D' release.  Recorded in 2003 at the West Tennessee Detention Center, the collection is a flawless capturing of Tracy and her band of amazing musicians in the moment.  These tracks are in many ways more listenable and, hell, perfect than some of her studio work -- which is saying a lot.  When you can deliver something this good live, the depth of your ability shines even brighter.

If you've never heard Tracy, 'Cellblock' is the CD to pick up.  It's a great introduction to Tracy Nelson at her ecclectic best.  It's Blues and Country and Rock.  It's sweet and sad and angry.  It's my favorite record right now.  Heck, it makes me so happy, I feel just like ballin' the jack.