Cult of the Record Bar
A love letter to the mall record store

By Bill Ramsey | Dec. 15, 2011
The Pulse | Chattanooga’s Weekly Alternative

A couple of months ago an obscure music website posted a story under the headline “CD-format to be abandoned by major labels by the end of 2012.” Through the power of the Internet, the just-believable-enough story — which carried no byline and quoted no sources — reverberated across the web with the power of a New York Times blockbuster, at least to the music-buying public, who are so accustomed to downloading and streaming the article seemed altogether likely.

Though not true—while growing fast, digital downloading and streaming are not expected to outpace CD sales anytime soon, with one industry executive claiming 74 percent of all albums sales this year came from CDs—the article did spark a debate among musicologists and fans: If the CD didn’t exist anymore would anyone miss it?

The same story under a different headline was written 30 years ago when Sony offered the first CD (alongside the first CD player), notes New Musical Express music writer Luke Lewis, resulting in pure profits for music labels as we rushed to replace our vinyl collections with new compact discs. The story goes back further; the same apocalypse was sounded when 8-track tapes were introduced, then cassette tapes. In the digital download/streaming era, music fans lament the loss of the CD with less fervor than the death of the vinyl record, but audiophiles have noted the deterioration in quality with each revolution in format.

But that’s another story. Lost in the debate, though not lost on the casual music buyer, is not the format but the delivery method. While the ability to instantly download or stream music cheaply, if not freely, to anyone with a decent Internet connection has been cause for celebration among music buyers, the romance of buying music, as this issue demonstrates, has not. For those born within the last 30 years, this argument will mean almost nothing. If you’ve purchased a CD in a retail store at all, chances are it was either at Best Buy or Walmart, neither of which will ever be the source of nostalgic movies starring the likes of John Cusack or Jack Black.

But for those of us who grew up in the 1970s and ‘80s, buying music meant visiting the mall. Where I grew up in Hixson, that meant Northgate, and the destination was Record Bar. There really was no other choice, at least for mainstream music fans like myself and many of my friends. Back then few of us had developed eclectic enough tastes to bother with the independent record stores, places like the Nickel Bag, which, while offering some paraphernalia of great interest to more than a few of us, reeked of what kids today might call old-school hippie music. No, what we wanted was the latest Springsteen, the new Tom Petty album, the hot Top 40 single (on 45rpm), maybe a poster, a T-shirt, one of those groovy Discwasher cleaning systems.

The Record Bar was no Championship Vinyl, the fictional record store owned by John Cusak in High Fidelity and staffed by quirky geeks with encyclopedic knowledge of music, but for many it was the epitome of hip (who, after all, didn’t want to work in a record store) and for some, a career (there is a Cult of the Record Bar Facebook page where former managers and employees trade memories). It was also, with the possible exception of Spencer Gifts, the coolest store in the mall, a sanctuary and a temple, a gathering place now fondly remembered as less than a retail outlet than an iconic element of the youth of a few generations.

Of course, the Record Bar wasn’t the only store in town. Freestanding music stores began popping up in the late 1970s and preferences, if not allegiances, were formed. Across Hwy. 153 from Northgate, an oasis of cool was birthed in the form of Paradise Records in what then seemed an enormous space devoted entirely to all things music. Wall-to-wall bins of albums, tapes, posters and accessories filled Paradise, along with an impressive collection of non-mainstream records that became increasingly important as our musical tastes evolved. Before the end of the ’80s, Record Bar had become Tracks, Paradise morphed into Peaches, then Cats, before the entire enterprise folded into the megastore, or the big-box outlet. Or whatever.

For me and many of my friends, the memory of the Record Bar (and Paradise, Peaches and Cats) is as strong and personal as the music we purchased there. We combed the bins together, sharing opinions, comparing notes and flaunting our (always) superior musical tastes. In the best-case scenario, we traveled in pairs (who went to the mall alone?), bought our favorites and ran home to engage in a stereophonic battle of the bands. Sure, we loved the music, but it was the records and, to a large extent, the record store that brought us together, even those of us who had nothing else in common.

I struggle to remember the last time I purchased a physical piece of music. I’ve long since liquidated my massive LP collection and largely abandoned collecting CDs. Hell, my iPod mostly sits in a drawer, uncharged and collecting dust. I listen to music in my car and stream it on my computer at work, but there’s no evidence at home that I’m the hardcore fan and collector I was even 15 years ago.

When I moved back to my hometown of Hixson this year after 30 years away and only a handful of visits in between, I was eager to visit my old stomping grounds. As I wandered into Northgate, it seemed impossibly small, nowhere near the palatial plaza I remembered. Gone were my favorite haunts—the Record Bar, WaldenBooks and (from a later age) Mr. P’s—and, like many malls, the place had a faintly decaying air, as if it were hanging on just long enough for me to pay my respects. But as I made my way around the mall, I was pleasantly surprised to find For The Record—an actual record store. In the mall. In 2011. (See Page 8 for a profile.) It’s no Record Bar or, for that matter, a true indie record store, either. But the store gave me hope—for music, for malls, for everything that lives in my ever-more present nostalgia.

At 47, I’m too young to linger long in the past, but old enough to appreciate what made it worthy of nostalgia—and I’m not alone, as I’m reminded each time I mention the Record Bar on Facebook. While my taste in music has changed over the years, I’m pleased, even sentimental at the idea that a store like For the Record exists in my mall after all these years. While the Best Buys and the Walmarts still stock all the hits and more than a few misses, I doubt 30 years hence anyone will recall a memorable moment there, much less devote a Facebook page to the experience.

The Best Songwriter You’ve Never Heard of Drives South to Chattanooga. Don’t Make Him Say ‘Damn This Town’


By Bill Ramsey | Nov. 10, 2011
The Pulse | Chattanooga’s Weekly Alternative

Every two years or so, John Hiatt makes a record that gives music critics and DJs at those few radio stations worth listening to in America something to agree on. Which is to repeat, this time in the words of WUTC-FM’s Richard Winham, “John Hiatt is the best songwriter you’ve never heard of, but you’ve almost certainly heard his songs.” It’s sadly true, but after 40 years, Hiatt has long made peace with this bit of cruel irony.



Hiatt, as he will tell you, tells me, tells anyone, really, doesn’t write songs for anyone else. Never has, never will. John Hiatt writes John Hiatt songs—tough, gritty roadhouse-ready rock and roll and poignant “this-is-what-I’ve-learned-about-love” relationship songs that give you pause and make you think out loud, “Damn, where has this guy been all this time?”

Turns out, he’s been around for a long, long time, and those same songs have caught the ears of others who’ve done with them what he has not—with few exceptions—been able to do: turn John Hiatt songs into hit records.

The short list: Bob Dylan, B.B. King, Bonnie Raitt, Eric Clapton, Linda Ronstadt, Emmylou Harris—hell, even Ronnie Milsap—have covered Hiatt songs and made more than a few hits of them. “Thing Called Love” helped Bonnie Raitt come back from cutout-bin obscurity in the 1980s. “Angel Eyes” dovetailed into perfect harmony with Jeff Healey’s too-short career. Clapton and King built an entire double-platinum album out of Hiatt’s Riding With The King in 2000.

Hiatt shrugs it off, enjoys the royalties and keeps on writing, playing and hitting the road with various versions of the bands who record his music—20 albums’ worth now (if you count live discs and compilations)—that stretches back to 1974’s Hanging Around The Observatory and is now bookended by his latest, Dirty Jeans & Mudslide Hymns.

At 59, Hiatt’s never had a Top 40 hit of his own, but that fact neither haunts him nor deters him. At 21, he wrote “Sure As I’m Sittin’ Here,” a No. 16 charting hit for Three Dog Night that earned him a record deal with Epic and he’s never looked back. The idea that he’d write hit songs has likely occurred to Hiatt many times. At one point he very likely relished the idea, maybe still would. But these days a hit song doesn’t enter Hiatt’s consciousness very often. He is flattered that so many artists, some of them personal heroes he grew up listening to, have covered his songs, but says he was never comfortable writing for anyone but himself.

“I don’t write for other people, never have,” he tells me during a phone conversation. He was speaking from his longtime Nashville home, during a break from his recent tour, before making the short trip to Track 29 for his first Chattanooga performance since he can remember. “I love what I do and I just have a real passion for it. I love writing and recording—hell, I don’t know how to do anything else.”

That’s not exactly true—he’d probably be racing on the Indy circuit (and has) in another career—but modern American music would be much worse off were it not for Hiatt, and songwriting would be devoid of one of its finest craftsman. After years bouncing around record labels where he was variously (and futilely) categorized as new wave, country or blues, Hiatt found his own successful niche with the release of Bring the Family. This 1987 record marked the beginning of a rich, remarkable and uncompromisingly excellent period of songwriting and recording featuring his own flinty, whiskey-and-cigarette-aged vocals.

“I had not had success out of the box,” Hiatt says of his early efforts. “Success gains you freedom at record labels, so they keep intervening. [Bring The Family] was the first record we got to make on our own, independently. I was so screwed up, learning to live without drugs and alcohol, I didn’t know what to do. The producer said, ‘You can just sing in the shower and we’ll release it.’ ”

Sobriety unleashed something. Hiatt released seven albums on three labels prior to Bring The Family. Each had their moments, as Hiatt gathered critical momentum and a solid fan base, thanks to relentless touring in the U.S. and overseas. But mainstream success eluded him. His influences—Elvis (Presley and Costello), Dylan, the blues and country—produced erratic, often critically acclaimed records, but each failed commercially. Nuggets from these years ensconced him as songwriter to the stars. A young Rosanne Cash latched on to “The Way We Make A Broken Heart,” dueting with Hiatt on the song in 1983. The song went unreleased until Cash re-recorded it and took it to No. 1 on the country charts in 1987—the same year Hiatt released Bring The Family.

That seminal record, recorded with a supergroup that included Ry Cooder, Nick Lowe and drummer Jim Keltner (who would together briefly form a side project dubbed Little Village), touched a nerve. Independence—from alcohol, drugs, record labels—marked a turning point for Hiatt, reflected in a song he says he would not mind being remembered for, “Have A Little Faith In Me.” Again, a string of other artists—Joe Cocker, Delbert McClinton, Jewel, Jon Bon Jovi—nabbed the song for their own, but Hiatt’s own voice rose above them all.

Nine successive albums all broke the Billboard 200, including Slow Turning, the follow-up album to Bring The Family that included such hits as “Paper Thin,” “Tennessee Plates” and “Angel Eyes.” But it was Bonnie Raitt’s version of “Thing Called Love” from her 1989 album, Nick of Time, which reached No. 11 that year and helped re-boot Raitt’s own floundering career, that earned him the most acclaim as a songwriter. More records, countless tours and another label (A&M) followed that success.

Not much has changed in the intervening years, Hiatt insists, besides the ability to record and release records on his own. “That certainly helps,” he says of his indie status, “being able to make records that I want to make when I want.” His latest is the ninth since departing A&M after Perfectly Good Guitar.

Hiatt now writes and records his own records in his Franklin studio and leases them to New West Records, with whom he’s had a fruitful relationship since 2003’s Beneath This Gruff Exterior. His prodigious output—more than 700 songs and counting—he says, is simply a matter of occupation, and, he has joked, aging. “I’m running out of time,” he’s said on more than once occasion.

These days, Hiatt consistently releases noteworthy albums that have earned him the sort of high praise—if not multimillions—that those who have recorded his songs are more often associated with. It is not unusual to see the terms “national treasure” and “icon” tagged to his name, though he blanches at such sobriquets.

His music is neither influenced nor tied to moments in time, although you’d get that sense from his most recent album covers, which reflect a “Grapes of Wrath” grit and weariness that echo the nation’s economic plight. Hiatt is not a “message” songsmith in the mold of his fellow Indianan, John Mellencamp. Instead, he deals in the politics of life, family—the joy, the pain and day-to-day moments that underscore his best love songs—and, occasionally, the reckless abandon of his youth.

“All my songs are message songs,” he says, turning my question around. “I’m talking to the people—that is political. Causes and such is not something I deal in. It’s not my thing. There are other people much more knowledgeable than me in that arena.”

Politics may not appeal to Hiatt, but the ravages of disaster, natural and otherwise, pockmark his songs. Dirty Jeans is filled with references to monumentous events from the past few years. From floods and blizzards to remembrance of 9/11, Hiatt brings an emotional resonance—felt if not explicitly expressed—to his songs that form boundaries.

Speaking recently to another interviewer (Hiatt does lots of interviews) he reflects upon the events of recent years, connecting his lyrics to the everyman assessment of life he’s become known for. Not the really big stuff; just the stuff of daily life we all muddle through and can connect to and relate with.

“The 2010 flood in Nashville tore up some of our place and thousands of people lost their homes,” he told one reporter. “It didn’t get much national attention because there weren’t enough lootings—not enough bad news. Then, we did a winter tour and every city we went to got hit by a blizzard. The songs that came out of that were about the impermanence of things—the constant shifts of people and things.”

Even after 25 years of marriage, Hiatt still regards his love affair with similar impermanence, as if it will flutter away with the prevailing winds. His love songs—“relationship” songs, really—chart his comfort levels, affirm his core beliefs and celebrate small tendernesses—but the songs don’t get any easier, he says. “Love songs are still the hardest songs to write because they can become corny so quickly.”

In “I Love That Girl,” he writes of such “corny” affirmations, singing, “And she wakes me with coffee and kisses my head/And starts to explain about something she’s read/I say, ‘Darling, you haven’t heard a word that I’ve said’/And I love that girl.”

You can’t help but find something in common with Hiatt’s scenes from a relationship and I ask him how is wife responds to such valentines. “She likes ‘em for the most part,” he says with a laugh. “She’ll say things like, ‘That’s nice.’”

Unintentionally, it seems, the corniness of Hiatt’s sentiments are the ones the ring most true and he mines the mundane as if these fleeting moments that pass us all by will disappear, unremarked upon. Love, Hiatt, seems to say, is what happens when you’re not paying attention.

Such moments, along with a healthy dose of rock and roll, Indiana-style—hot cars, fast women and nights under the bleachers—and the wicked sense of humor that Hiatt brings to his live show, combine into something he regards as the epitome of his essence. Even for an artist who has lived from eight tracks to digital downloads.

“Nothing beats live,” he says, seeming to anticipate the road shows ahead of him. “You can’t download live and that’s the most exciting part. We’ve got a great little four piece band, it’s rock and roll, the classic setup and we’ve been rocking all over the country—the shows have been a blast.”

John Hiatt’s road goes on forever, it seems. We’re lucky to catch a glimpse.

John Hiatt performs Thursday, Nov. 17, at Track 29.

By Bill Ramsey
The Pulse | Oct. 27, 2011
Photos by Lesha Patterson

If you’re looking for Dr. Shock, don’t bother lifting coffin lids or poking around cemeteries after dark. Ditto for the old WTVC studios in the Golden Gate Shopping Center, home of the original Shock Theatre. Shock’s current lair is in a suitably funky former hair salon on an appropriately shadowy block of a less-traveled downtown street. The windows are blacked out and a sign on the door alludes to the mischief within: “Nobody gets in to see the wizard. Not nobody. Not no how.” Just knock, goes the saying, the bell is out of order.

Most likely the Wizard of Odd will answer. That would be Scott Fillers, a local magician, horror movie enthusiast and yet another in a growing consortium of Friends of Shock Theatre who have lent their time, talent or, in this case, storefront to the recently revived horror host. Inside, a wall filled with Filler’s kitschy horror movie collectibles shares space with the set pieces that form Shock’s makeshift studio—cobwebbed stone pillars, a coffin, skulls and furniture that would not be out of place in Norma Desmond’s Sunset Boulevard home.

Before Shock himself appears, I regard his button-eyed puppet sidekick, Dingbat, in repose across the crushed velvet couch. When Shock enters from an anteroom, he is shocking only in his lack of Shock-ness: No cape, no dark eye makeup, no dangling cigarette, the latter a signature prop—along with the skull-topped cane—of the original Dr. Shock. “I had to quit smoking,” this Shock says, apologetically.

Shock is in street clothes, in this case his mortal form’s casual attire. Local musician Jack Gray is still feeling the weight of the cape and finding his footing a year after accidentally ascending to the role. But it’s surprising how much Gray, a heavy-set man with hound-dog eyes, a weary smile and an easygoing manner, resembles his predecessor, the late Tommy Reynolds.


Nurse Goodbody (Contstance Haynes) kisses Dingbat. Jack Gray plays Dr. Shock in a revival of the iconic Chattanooga horror host, whose program “Shock Theatre” aired on WTVC Channel 9 from 1968 to 1975.

Bob Brandy, Miss Marcia and, most notably, Dr. Shock, are figures who still exist in the nostalgic, gauzy memory of those who lived in the region during the 1960s and ’70s. With the exception of Miss Marcia, who still appears on local TV, most have died, as have the shows that propelled them into the hearts of viewers. Reynolds, a longtime program director at WTVC/Channel 9, earned cult celebrity status in 1970s Chattanooga as host of Shock Theatre, the station’s campy late-night horror movie fest that aired on Saturday nights from 1968 to 1975. Abetted by his curiously disturbing puppet sidekick Dingbat (created and voiced by Dan East) and the curvaceous Nurse Goodbody (Patricia Abney), Reynolds single-handedly introduced the genre to the local market.


Tommy Reynolds, the original Dr. Shock, in a 1970s promotional photograph.

At first, Reynolds—who began his on-air career as Shock in the 1960s hosting Science Fiction Theater on WTVC—adopted a camp Dracula persona, introducing and ridiculing a series of mostly low-budget horror and science-fiction movies during commercial breaks. He took the show to a new level when he began lobbing satirical bombs at local politicians, the Lookout Mountain elite and his fellow media personalities along with sometimes risqué comic bits that flew over the heads of youthful viewers but quickly caught older fans’ attention.

The pair would often push the envelope, straying into controversial territory, getting Reynolds and East got into hot water with station management, writes longtime local TV and radio personality David Carroll in his book Chattanooga Radio and Television. But their sometimes-naughty behavior just served to boost ratings—and advertiser response—Carroll recalls.

“Starting out as a radio deejay at that time, I can tell you that getting your name mentioned on Shock Theatre, even as part of a fake news story or other comedy routine, was huge,” Carroll says.

Dr. Shock’s reign of televised mock terror hit its zenith in the mid-’70s. Saturday nights after the late news mostly faded to black. But when a new, female general manager took over at WTVC in 1975, both Reynolds’ and Shock’s days were numbered. According to Carroll, “Evidently there was some disagreement between the two, so he went to WDEF, where he hosted afternoon drive radio show for a few years.”

Shock reappeared at Channel 12, but didn’t last long, nor did Reynolds, who landed at WHNT Channel 19 in Huntsville, Ala., where he briefly revived Shock Theatre. But Huntsville got only a glimpse of what had made Dr. Shock a legend in Chattanooga. Gone were Dingbat and Nurse Goodbody, along with the biting commentary. The show eventually fizzled and Reynolds retired.



But old horror hosts never really die—they just find new souls to inhabit. Enter Jack Gray and Johnny Stockman, a local film producer and editor, who had attempted a Shock revival in the early 1990s but was rebuffed by Channel 9. “I’d always loved the show and thought there was room for it to return,” recalls Stockman. “When I tried it [though], I ran into so many naysayers I gave up on it.”

News of Reynolds’ 2008 death again reminded Stockman of the character and when friends remarked Gray had more than a passing resemblance to Reynolds, the resurrection of Dr. Shock was under way.

What began as a Facebook gag quickly evolved into a serious attempt at reincarnating the character. Gray recounts donning the tux and cape for the first time, smearing greasepaint around his eyes and—most importantly—fashioning his hair in that distinctive Tom-Snyder-meets-Richard-Nixon look.

For better or worse, that simple act of bad grooming sealed Gray’s fate.

He’s tapped into the horror host zeitgeist. Reynolds didn’t invent Shock Theatre, nor was he the only Dr. Shock. A zombie army of horror hosts came to life on local channels nationwide when Screen Gems syndicated its fright films library in 1957 in a package dubbed Shock Theater, encouraging stations add a local host. The scheme worked and Son of Shock! followed in 1958, just as Reynolds began his career at WTVC. “When local TV stations were starting out, there wasn’t as much network or syndicated programming compared to what we’ve had since the 1980s forward,” says Carroll. “Stations had to fill some time, they were usually locally owned, so they were making stuff up as they were going along, trying a little of everything.”

Times, technology and programming changed, but horror hosts continued to grow in popularity with the rise of Elvira, Cassandra Peterson’s perennially popular “Mistress of the Dark,” in the early 1980s. Online, multiple fan sites catalog and document the genre’s history, and YouTube brims over with horror host clips. The 2010 documentary American Scary tracked down 300 horror hosts and profiled 60 of the most popular. “They set the tone for how we view horror movies as camp,” co-director Sandy Clark told USA Today last year. “I couldn’t believe no one had told this story before.”

In short, the timing was right for the rebirth of Shock Theatre in Chattanooga. Listen to Gray for a while and you’re convinced.

Baby Boomer masses that grew up with Shock, he says, are ready for it. As proof, Gray offers his large Facebook following and stories of fan encounters at numerous public appearances this year. He’s recruited an eager and enthusiastic co-host in Constance Haynes, who portrays the new Nurse Goodbody in an updated, goth style. Gray has even fabricated a reconstituted Dingbat after finding no one capable of recreating the iconic fanged puppet.

“Historically, it’s an honor to be part of this,” Gray says. “We’re really fans at heart and we’re having a lot of fun.”

Gray has spent the past year perfecting the character, attempting to faithfully honor Reynolds’ memory while adding his own brand of quirks and riffs. “I’m not an actor, I’m a musician. I get nervous in front of the camera and screw up, but maybe that makes it better,” he says. “It would be great to get into Reynolds’ psyche, but I’m developing my own technique as I go along.”

As Shock, Gray has worked hard to rekindle interest—making personal appearances at such events as ConNooga, the local sci-fi/horror convention; appearing at local haunted houses and pre-Halloween events; and preparing for a blowout Halloween night show at The Honest Pint, where his band, the Shock Theatre Orchestra, will perform its original rock opera, Hauntsville, a nod to Reynolds’ exile in Huntsville. All this has been a lead-in to what he expected, until earlier this month, to be the first full version of Shock Theatre on local TV in more than 30 years.

Gray has been doggedly pursuing a deal to return Shock to the air with WTVC management. So far, that relationship has been up and down. When Stockman and Gray first promoted the new Shock with videos on Facebook and YouTube last year, the response, says Stockman, was incredible. “They (WTVC) were calling us,” he recalls. The Shock team filmed segments promoting a Shock Theatre revival on WTVC’s digital channel, ThisTV, before Halloween last year which the station used in advance of the first program on Valentine’s Day. The results of that show didn’t sit well Stockman or Gray.

“They (Channel 9) rearranged and put it together badly,” he says. “It just sucked, the cutting made no sense. You had to watch the movie three times to see it all.” After the show aired, production went into a hiatus, but Gray was still thrilled with the response.

“We were really excited by the initial response from fans and WTVC,” Gray says. “Expectations were high. If we were going to do it, we wanted to honor the original concept and do it right.”

A few months ago, he forged a new deal with ThisTV to air a Shock special on Oct. 29 around Night of the Living Dead, the classic 1968 George Romero film. With the help of a sponsor, local restaurant Aretha Frankensteins, Gray paid $300 for the timeslot and launched a Kickstarter campaign he hopes will raise the $13,000 necessary to fund a full season of Shock Theatre.

But the ghosts of Reynolds’ ’70s quarrel with management and Stockman’s early-’90s attempts re-surfaced. The deal began to unravel, eventually falling apart completely.

First, the station questioned the legality and cost associated with airing Night of the Living Dead. Gray had done his research and assured station management that the film was in public domain, a detail he found odd considering he was dealing with a television station. (For the record, the film accidentally went into public domain after the distributor failed to use copyright notices on the original prints. The film is free and downloadable online).

But when Gray couldn’t produce legal documents verifying that fact, WTVC issued orders requiring Gray to write and film new bits (at his own expense) to air around commercial breaks for another film, most likely a classic from the 1930s already in their library such as Bride of Frankenstein. While this would have eliminated the cost of the airtime, the switch quashed his vision of running a modern horror classic around a coherent Shock program he’d already filmed—a deal the station had previously approved. The new segments would constitute two-minute commercial breaks, not a show, he says. He also had less than two weeks to write, rehearse and film the new bits to run Oct. 31 from 4 to 11 p.m.—not Saturday night, the night Shock fans expect. He was, in a word, shocked.

“They kept moving the target. We just couldn’t produce a quality show in that time,” Gray says wearily. “I’d had enough.”

WTVC General Manager Mike Costa declined to comment on the details, adding only, “It is unfortunate the Shock Theatre special could not become a reality. I made a decision in the best interest of the television station.”

In response, Gray says, “I’m constantly reminded of how Tommy Reynolds must have felt. This was the same way he was treated. I get the feeling they don’t like the fact that people want this to happen. Some things never change.”

Gray remains optimistic Shock Theatre will air again soon, this time, ironically, on competitor WDEF Channel 12 and its digital counterpart, Tuff TV, where he turned after the WTVC debacle and was warmly welcomed. The show will go on—only not on Halloween weekend. Gray says the all-new Shock Theatre will likely air Thanksgiving weekend on Tuff TV around Night of the Living Dead, a copy of which Tuff TV already has in its library.

“Tuff TV and WDEF are very open to what we’re doing, but we need some time to re-film and promote it properly. All this adds up to slowing down and getting this first show right. I think this is going to be a version of Shock Theatre that people will realize is different and much more developed,” says Gray.

But even a successful revival of the iconic show won’t likely usher in a new era of local programming, according to author and WRCB host Carroll. With the vast variety of shows now cheaply available to local stations for syndication, the cost and effort required to produce local programming doesn’t add up.

He notes, “Now that hundreds of channels, with every conceivable niche, are available, it’s unlikely that local stations would spend the money and energy required to launch that type of show.”

Still, you never know. The good doctor might just Shock everyone.

Tags: Dr. Shock, Tommy Reynolds, Chattanooga icons, Jack Gray, Dingbat, WTVC, Shock Theatre , Horror Hosts

AVA’s annual free tour of downtown galleries and studios brings art face-to-face with the community


By Bill Ramsey | Sept. 8, 2011
The Pulse | Chattanooga’s Weekly Alternative

Confronting art can be a challenge. Most meet visual art in the look-but-don’t touch, library-quiet confines of museums, where brief placards, docents or pre-recorded introductions leave one to dutifully nod in understanding or arch a quizzical eyebrow in confusion. The gift shop is usually the fun part. Galleries can be slightly less formal, but the art-for-sale element can present a potent distraction for the casual observer.

Not so during Gallery Hop, the annual daylong, pressure-free—and free—tour of downtown Chattanooga galleries and artist’s studios designed to both demystify and delight.

Much has been written about the city’s burgeoning arts community and the Hop connects the loosely defined district. Hoppers follow a route that flows from the district’s North Shore core on Frazier Avenue, jumps the river into the heart of downtown and winds its way down East Main to the growing enclave of studios and galleries sprouting up as a result of economic incentives offered to artists who relocate to the city’s once downtrodden Southside.

“It’s the only time of year when every gallery and studio gets a marker on a map,” says Katie Boerema of the Association for Visual Arts (AVA), which introduced the event six years ago as the Chattanooga arts community began to take shape downtown. “There’s a real social aspect. It’s an interactive experience you can share with friends.”

Indeed, developing an “arts district” has been central to the cultural and economic success of inner-city revitalization in communities across the country. Where art and artists thrive, an air of rejuvenation seems to follow, creating a social center and restoring a sense of place in cities where the tentacles of urban decay once spread like cancer.

“Most people experience art at public festivals such as 4Bridges,” says AVA’s Executive Director Anne Willson, where, she says, the cautiousness of entering a museum is removed. “People experience art all the time in their everyday lives,” she says—they just don’t make the connection, and the Hop helps cement that link. “This is art not on the streets, but it’s open to the streets.”

The Hop is not unlike a pub crawl—sans the alcohol-induced exhaustion—a light, fun, focused excursion where inclusion usurps pretension, there’s no hard sell and people have the opportunity to encounter the relationship between art and their community.

Participants vary from year to year, but no fewer than 18 galleries will open their doors from 2 to 9 p.m. on Saturday in an open invitation to explore a variety of media, from paintings, photographs and sculpture to crafts, pottery, furniture, jewelry and blown glass. Most galleries and studios are offering refreshments and snacks, and this year’s new AfterHop party at Good Dog (adjacent to AVA on Frazier) awaits avid art mavens who want to extend the evening and discuss the day’s discoveries.

“Last year at the end of the Hop, lots of folks ended up on the North Shore,” says AVA’s Jerry Dale McFadden, director of the annual 4Bridges Arts Festival. “There was a lot of energy and they weren’t ready to stop, so we added the AfterHop as a central gathering place to end the day.”

But before you jump to conclusions, you need gather the evidence. Grab a map (in print at AVA or online at avarts.org), don your ears (if the spirit strikes) and, well, take a leap.

The Hop’s logical jumping-off pad is AVA’s own gallery on Frazier Avenue, when its annual “Fresh” exhibit debuts on Saturday. “Fresh” is a competitive, juried exhibit designed to showcase artists that display artistic promise, commitment to their work and fresh ideas.

Among these emerging artists is Amy Johnson, a 27-year-old Virginia native and graduate of the University of the South in Sewanee who has called Chattanooga home for the past two years.

“It’s exciting to be able to work on my own and the AVA exhibit is a great opportunity,” Johnson says. “Aside from school, this is my first opportunity to show my work. I’ve done the Hop for the past few years and it’s one of my favorite events.”

The opportunity to meet artists in their studios is another “doesn’t happen every day” element of the Hop that takes visitors behind the gallery walls and allows them to “take down the Wizard’s curtain,” as AVA’s Boerema puts it.

“It’s an opportunity to meet working artists,” adds Willson. “It demystifies the process, breaks down the rules and lets you ask questions.”

Miki Boni, an artist who took advantage of an ArtsMove grant three years ago transplanting her from Bradenton, Fla., where she operated an open studio, is among the five artists who will pull back that curtain to give Hoppers an opportunity to peek into the rabbit hole, so to speak.

“I was in an artist colony in Bradenton and my studio was part of my gallery,” says Boni. “I was always painting in the gallery when people would walk in, so I’m used to that. In Chattanooga, I decided that my studio is more of a showroom. I don’t paint on the night of a showing, but I do take a work-in-progress and share the process. You’d be surprised how many people give you good ideas.”

Boni, an outgoing artist who helped organize the Southside Arts Stroll, says she loves the Hop and the opportunity to meet the public.
“I’m a visible kind of girl,” she says, “and the Hop gives us a lot of visibility.”

Now in her third year in Chattanooga, Boni says it takes time—a good two or three years, she reckons—before an artist becomes settled and established in a new community, and events such as the Gallery Hop help artists and the community form a bond.

“A lot of it is pioneering,” she says. “There wasn’t always a big arts community here, and I’m a pioneer from way back. As long as people are willing to work, put that extra time in to be part of a group, that’s when the magic starts to happen.”

Tags: Arts, Artists, Gallery Hop, Chattanooga, The Pulse

Man of 1,000 faces
Kevin Bate made a big splash with his Samuel L. Jackson mural. Now his portraits of the famous (and infamous) are popping up on walls all over Chattanooga

By Bill Ramsey | September 2011
From the “In the Studio” artist profile series
art-creations.com

Chattanooga artist Kevin Bate is the proverbial overnight sensation, only 40 years in the making. When his mural of Chattanooga-bred actor Samuel L. Jackson appeared earlier this year on the wall of a downtown building scheduled to be demolished as part of the Disco Demolition Project, Bate gained instant notoriety in the local media and his work sparked an informal campaign to honor the star (or have Jackson honor Chattanooga with his presence). Whether or not Jackson returns, Bate has been the beneficiary of excellent media exposure resulting in numerous commissions, including a 25-foot mural portrait of Bessie Smith at the new music venue Track 29 and a rendering of the famed St. Pauli Girl at the new Brewhaus on Frazier Ave, among others. Not bad for a lifelong artist who sold his first work ever this summer.

While Bate has always been an artist, he hasn't always been a muralist focused on iconic pop culture images. "My earlier work was more about graphic design, very intense pencil and pen-and-ink, hyper realistic stuff," he says, reckoning the commercial potential would be the key to a career as an artist. When that didn't work out, Bate put away his pens and pencils to concentrate on making a living. A decade later, Bate says it took his mother's prodding to "get him off the couch" and back in the studio. "She was asking me why I didn't paint anymore," he says. "So, I started working on my art again. I was kind of secretive about it and it took a while to find a style and an idea to work with, but when I finally hit on it, I realized I had something." Bate debuted his first work to his wife, a portrait of Frankenstein's monster in his now-signature high-contrast style, and got positive reviews. The next critic? His father, who was awed by the work's photo-realistic quality. "He looked at me, looked at the painting, looked back at me," recalls Bate with a laugh. "I told him I thought I'd found a style that was cool and worth pursing, and he said, 'Yes, I think so!"

During our interview for the first installment of "In the Studio," I found Bate a thoughtful, charming guy with an easy-going manner and a sharp wit. He's genuinely surprised — and delighted — with the attention paid to his work and with commissions rolling in, he's feeling confident about his future making a living as an artist full-time.

What part of the creative process do you find most exciting or engaging?
When I'm looking through old photographs and the perfect one steps up and slaps me across the face and says, “It's me. You're looking for me.” It's enough to make me call my wife in to show it to her and to stop work on the painting of the last pic that slapped me so that I can start on the new painting immediately.

What part of the creative process do you find most stressful?
I paint from light to dark, mixing as I go, always in one pail. This usually means that I don't get to the defining features — eyes, mouth, hair, the shadow under the nose — until the very end. Sometimes it is very hard to tell if a painting (especially a large one, like a mural, on the side of a building where everyone can see!) is going to come out right. Early on, it can be very stressful.

How do you make the choice of the manner and the materials you use in your work?
I started off painting with what I had around the house and in my workshop: luan panels, 1x2 supports, latex paint, big fat carpenter pencils. The subjects were pictures I'd seen and liked. I've been keeping a file for a while.

Do you render sketches or an underpainting before you begin a project?
Sketches definitely. I couldn't do what I'm doing without a few layers of sketches. Underpaintings usually only happen in murals and then they are really just a way of leaving notes for myself. Like, “If, when you get to this shape, it's not this dark, you need to go back and darken up the last three tones.” Or, “Don't forget that these two lines need to be really crisp. No cheating with a feathery brushstroke.” Weird, but it keeps me on track.



Have you completed works that you find difficult to part with, and if so, why?
When I was younger, I was very hesitant to part with my work. I still have almost everything I did in high school and college. But now, something has changed. I like the idea of pieces leaving me to go off and live elsewhere. And, don't tell anyone this, but not only did the destruction of the “Al” mural and the impending doom of “Samuel” not bother me, I actually think it's kind of cool. I've heard other artists say this. I can't explain it.

Tell me how you create a new work — the process, the materials, the worktable, your timetable.
I usually stumble across some cool pic and it goes from there. Next, a couple of rounds of sketching. Even on my smaller paintings I usually print an acetate to project so I can see how an image will layout on the panel. Sometimes I have to do this a few times until I get the composition right. Then I sketch out the shapes onto the panel and then paint. I paint with my drawing table flat, which everyone thinks is weird. But, that's how I do it. Again, going from light to dark, mixing each color in the same pail as I go.

What types and varieties of materials do you use?
I think I've used almost every type of brush made. I like a higher quality one-inch brush for murals. I don't skimp on these. They're the difference between a good line and a bad one. Sometimes I'll use a ½-inch round for getting into mortar joints. On really big murals, like Track 29, I'll use a four-inch foam roller on the background when I can. For my smaller paintings, I haven't really found a favorite brand or type of brush. It's got to be natural bristles, though.

Can you share any tips or techniques you've discovered?
If you're painting, buy the best brushes that you can afford and take care of them. The time and frustration you'll save with good brushes make them worth it. My art teacher in high school had us use liquid hand soap (the kind with moisturizers) to wash brushes and told us that the bristles were hair and had to be conditioned if we wanted the brush to last. Wash them well, sling or spin out the water and pull the bristles back into a point (on a round brush) or a chisel point (on flat brush) using the tips of your fingers and let them dry that way. This will keep the bristles from spreading and leaving little side trails when you paint. To speed brush cleanup, dip your brush in whatever you're using to thin your paint (water for acrylics, mineral spirits or linseed oil, whatever, for oils) before you even start painting and shake out the excess. The thinner will work it's way into the brush and make it easier to clean when it's time, especially around the ferrule. My dad taught me this.

How much has the computer impacted your work?
For murals it's a huge timesaver. It allows me to print sketches and thumbnails onto acetates to project onto the wall. In high school and art school, we would have to graph off our sketches, make a corresponding graph on whatever we were drawing on and transfer it over. I guess I could still summon the skill if I had to, but no one would pay me for that time. The computer and printer have helped me be much more cost efficient on the business end.

How large is your studio, and what do you like most about the physical space?
My studio is a converted workshop/storage shed in my backyard. It was 10' x 12', but my Dad and I took out a wall and added 40 more square feet to it in the spring. I love that it's outside and open to the elements (most of the year, at least). My dog, Mel, wanders in from time to time. My wife will come in with the baby for a garden tool or some potting soil. But when I need the time to focus and concentrate, I can still close the door and have the space to myself.

Do you prefer to work in the quiet, or with music or other sounds in the air?
Music, music, music — all the time. I try to match the mood of the music to the time of day. If it's light out, it's uptempo, anywhere from The Clash and Ramones to Kasabian and Eagles of Death Metal. At night, it's Morphine and Miles Davis to ... I don't know, XX and Fever Ray. If I'm working on a painting of a musician, I'll work a lot of their stuff into the playlist. Hank Williams Sr. was great. Bessie Smith kept me company many nights at Track 29.

What words of encouragement or wisdom would you like to share with amateur and/or emerging artists?
A couple of things: There are plenty of people out there willing to stomp on your dreams; don't be one of them. If you are inspired, follow it. Work it. Make it happen. Also, have multiple skills. Dreams don't happen over night. Look at me; I'll be 40 this month. I would have starved three times already if I hadn't had some other viable skills. Find something you can do during the day to put mac and cheese on the table while you paint (or draw, or sculpt, or compose, or play or act) nights and weekends. Oh, and don't smoke — that shit'll kill you and it's expensive.

Kevin Bate | Facebook
Age: 40 this month
Birthplace: San Francisco
I first knew I was an artist when: Grade school when my second grade teacher sent home an assignment for me to redo because I had colored outside of the boxes we were supposed to fill neatly. How's that for molding and shaping young minds! Good work there, Ms. Bearden.
The greatest influence on my work has been: Lately, Chuck Close. I stumbled on a book about him recently and it's what made me try my hand at faces. I'd never liked portraiture because I was taught that it had to be done in a certain, very traditional way. His worked showed me there were several ways you could do faces and make them astounding. One way, of course, was to paint very large.
Chattanooga inspires me because: With apologies to Vince Vaughn: “This town is so money and doesn't even know it.” I think that Chattanooga is on the verge of a huge leap forward. There is so much going on now in art and music and food in this town. We have new blood moving in every day. All the possibilities excite me. I want to experience and be a part of each of them.
My proudest moment as an artist: When people get real excited about a piece I've done, especially when they've just found out that I painted it. It happened a couple of times at Track 29's pre-opening. It's a huge ego boost.
I'm working on: A series of five (maybe six) 19' x 25' murals for Track 29; a proposal for the city for a sculpture based on my paintings; a mini Leslie Jordan mural for the Discoteca Demolition Project; and raising my 5-month-old son. All four are quite challenging and exciting.

Tags: Kevin Bate, Chattanooga, Artist, Samuel L. Jackson, Pop Culture