Mountain Xpress December 18 - 24, 1996
FRANK RABEY
you're a little bit country and I'm a little bit rock 'n' roll, as that horrible old song goes—when we meet, we'll probably both be decked out in denim. So what would compel a high-energy, chainsmoking, Knoxville, Tenn., rock 'n' country band to get up under the hot, hot lights, night after night, in suits and ties? "Our moms make us wear 'em," V-roys principal songwriter and singer Scott Miller drolly explained by phone recently.
Then he politely pointed out: "We're a pop band, fella." When I reached Miller, he was in a Houston, Texas, hotel. It was 11 a.m. central time, and he claimed to be groggy and not long awake, noting that someone from the band's record label "called about a half-hour ago, told me to get my ass up and get some Coke."
Welcome to the interview. Miller, claiming to have reached only a modest level of coherence, was already a dangerous man. And he fronts what, in certain terms, can be called a very dangerous band—because at their core, the four-piece V-roys are pop, but they're liable to fool you into thinking otherwise. With the chops and tradition to wow the alterr~a-country market, and bristling with raucous garagerock energy, they'll drive their guitar-centered, harmony-soaked melodies like a nail into your forehead—no matter what you call them.
But just imagine that you cut out the heart of a young Paul Westerberg and the Beatles-addled brain of Elvis Costello, and then stuck both in the body of Cowboy Ourfit-era Nick Lowe. Pretty cool monster, huh?
Nashville outlaw-genius Steve Earle certainly thought so: The V-roys were the first act signed to his new E-Squared label. And Earle co-produced (with Ray Kennedy) the band's potent debut, Just Add Ice, which was released in September to justifiably rave reviews. But back when Earle first heard the V-roys, Miller, guitarist/vocalist, Mike Harrison, bassist/vocalist Paxton Sellers and drummer Jeff Bills were still known as the Viceroys—a name they recently lost to an obscure Jamaican rasta group that held it first. "We had heard of 'em," Miller notes. "But then I [thought], 'Well, s—t, they formed in '68. There's no way they're gonna keep up with that name.' " Surprise. "There was even a Viceroys pop band back in the '60s," Miller continues wearily, "but nobody was smart enough — 'cept those damn dope-smokin' Jamaicans! — to keep their name registered."
And back before Miller, a native of Virginia's Shenandoah Valley with the accent to prove it, was the representative of kings (or a showy species of butterfly, depending on which "viceroy" definition you pick), he was something else entirely: a (gasp!) singer/songwriter. "I spent five years bustin' my ass at it," he notes. "And I think what [went] sour about it is that I was just not writing very good songs: I was being really clever, and pretty timely—just fallin' into that trap. It's easy to do that, I think, for singer/songwriters in general—but especially for me, 'cause I was openin' for rock bands. So it was like [he puts on a high, meek voiced, "Hey, notice me! Notice me! I'm the guy in front of the drums."
But what may be most telling about Miller's singer/songwriter days was his discovery of and increasing devotion to Nashville icon Roger Miller (no relation). Roger Miller is probably best known for humorous, mildly country cuts kke "Do-Wacka-Do," "King of the Road," "You Can't Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd" and "Dang Me."
He's another in that Nashvegas line of self-consciously clever writers ... "Wrong!" Miller interjects passionately. "Wrong!" Oops. OK, so what is it that drives the one Miller to rush to the other's defense? The V-roys singer laughs. "Oh, shit, man!" he exclaims. "It sounds cheesy, but that son-ofa-bitch changed my damn life. "I was sloggin' through, coin' that singer/songwriter thing, makin' a livin' at it, bein' clever and all that stuff. And then our drummer, Jeff [Bills] had given me a Roger Miller tape... [off all these slow, heartbreaking songs that he wrote that other people had covered—'Tall Tall Trees' by George Jones, stuff like that. But not really like the 'Do-Wacka-Do,' in-your-face stuff, y'know?
"So this thing was stuck in my tape deck forever," Miller adds, "and I just listened and listened to it. Then one day, this song 'Train of Life' came on, and it just ... kicked me right between the eyes. "You could hear where he was clever—I mean, he said, 'I guess I've got a funny soul,' and he did.... But [his music] was always so heartfelt and so passionate. And that's the secret, y'know? He just happens-to-be so talented as a writer, player, performer, singer and just as a creative brain—in all those different areas, where maybe some performers are only good at two of those five. But he has every one of them nailed, and it just comes through." Miller pauses, but not for long. "I can't say enough about him," he adds.
He really doesn't have to: Much of the praise that Miller leveled at his hero's music could just as easily be leveled at the V-roys' own: Heartfelt, passionate, clever, even downright funny (wait'll you hear "Cold Beer Hello") — a rare combination, wherever you happen to find it. And by mid-'97, you'll find it popping up in pretty heady company, on -the muchtalked-of Jimmie Rogers tribute album being coordinated by Bob Dylan. "I'm real happy with our track on it," Miller observes. "We did 'In the Jailhouse Now' with Steve [Earle]. He caught us at just the right time, because when we first started ... it was like our second or third night in the studio, and he goes [Miller imitates Earle], 'I gotta do this song for this Jimmie Rogers tribute,' and we'd had just enough beers that we were still confident." He does an uncanny Steve Earle, by the way. "Spend three weeks in England with him," Miller explains, "and you'll get him down."
Those three weeks, back in the spring, actually took the V-roys to Ireland and Scotland as well. "That tour of the U.K. was just ... it couldn't have been any better," Miller enthuses. "That's gotta-be the high point so far. The audiences were great. I think we played great. We got treated like kings—a tour bus and catered food. You never had to touch your guitar [before a show], you'd just go down there and put it on and turn it up, and go to town. Then [when it was over], you'd set it back down, go back to the dressing room, and get drunk on Guinness."
So, just for continuity's sake, what about low points? "We had a show once in Knoxville where we had to take our pants off, we were so bad," Miller recalls. Now wait a minute ... "We just sucked so bad," he continues, "and we were goin' down for the second set, and I said, 'Boys, this is so humiliating, there's nothing more to do.' So we just took our pants off and went down and played the rest of the show." So, um ... did that go over well? "Yeah," says Miller. "It was the high point of the evening."
