The few, the proud

Ray Mason and Charlie Chesterman

by John O'Neil

It's a harrowing time we live in, those of us who still feel that nostalgic pang for that rarity called smart pop songwriting. The Musical Ground Zero ushered in shortly after Cobain de-

cided to suck the pipe is not only upon us but apparently has wedged its misogynistic, Tourette's-addled, backwards-baseball-capped-wearing ass so deeply into the oversized leather chair in the Universal Music Group's executive office that there's barely enough room left for the A&R flacks to grab a discrete hum job from any of their pre-fab boy bands.

What's more, they're afraid to say "screw" because -- since Seagram's industry takeover resulted in a wholesale bloodbath where nearly 50 percent of those who made the hits were transformed instantly into those who hit the bricks -- most executives would rather lick the urinals than risk stepping out of line in the name of art. This in itself is nothing revelatory. Record folk have been puckering-up for all the wrong reasons starting way back with the strategy meeting that married Pat Boone and "Tutti Frutti." It's just that music has become so utterly generic and predictable that one would suspect there's now a dull clang every time the bucket is lowered into the same old well. How else do you explain Godsmack?

If you're name is Ray Mason or Charlie Chesterman, you don't even try to because that's a game better left to hungry youngsters with big dreams and to narcissistic old farts like David Bowie. With nearly 50 years of combined obscurity tucked under their belt, Mason and Chesterman are part of that proud-but-foolish contingent that, in the era of serious power supplies and precious few ideas, chooses to flaunt beautiful melodies, compact song structure, and a keen ability to turn a clever phrase about taking yet another beat-down from love. You gotta wonder what they're thinking.

"Those are my favorite songs -- relationships," says Mason (who happens to be happily married in real life). "I was always attracted to that type of thing. I think most people are. That whole `Hey, I'm wonderful, it's so great!'thing - [songs] like that don't touch you inside. I love emotion the most. I won't write too many happy songs no matter what's going on!"

A home-run hitter in general (both last years Castanets and 1998's Old Soul's Day are must-haves, as is the entire catalogue of his side-project, the Lonesome Brothers) and a guy who's the subject of a tribute album (It's Heartbreak That Sells) without being dead, broke, or in the loony bin, Mason continues to up his already-considerable personal ante with the nearly-flawless When the Clown's Work Is Over (Captivating). The CD is a 13-tune stunner that finds Mason in his usual fine form -- especially on the state-of-me manifesto "Got It Right," the achingly wonderful "You Sold Me on a Joke," and the album-ending rave-up "Personal Last Call."

Clown's Work gets its extra kick from Mason's band. Tight and subtly explosive, the long-time rhythm section of Frank Marsh and Stephen Desaulniers continue to provide the wheels for Mason's juggernaut, but the secret weapon comes in the form of second guitarist Tom Shea. An alum of the Castanets sessions, Shea's full integration into the group has paid huge dividends. Bringing a raw grittiness and muscle to the mix, Shea also keeps the sonics within the tried and true boundaries of the Mason Band's pop sensibilities.

"We've played together for a while, and Tom is more involved now," Mason readily agrees. "I think it's our best album. It always helps if they get better rather than worse. It makes you feel like you're going up instead of down!"

Meanwhile Charlie Chesterman answers with Ham Radio. Having tasted a dollop of success working with '80s roots-rockers Scruffy the Cat (which included cutting an album with legendary Memphis producer Jim Dickinson), Chesterman has produced his best work over the past seven years fronting the Legendary Motorbikes. Whereas he led Scruffy toward a more country bent with each successive album, the Motorbikes' work gets less rustic and more polished with each release. Where 1996's Studabakersfield (Slow River) was a Western-styled rocker, the follow-up Dynamite Music Machine and now Ham Radio seem more interested in delving back into pop music.

"The album is kind of a hodgepodge, but they follow the same suit," says Chesterman, whose best-remembered contribution to local music might be the Dogmatics mangling his "King Sized Cigarette" and turning it into an instant classic. "It's fun to write a Johnny Cash song, but it's fun to be the Rolling Stones, too."

Treading a DMZ between '60s pop jangle and classic country sprawl -- a sound too hopeful for modern rock, not authentic enough for the No Depression cool-school, and too amped-up for the coffeehouse crowd -- Chesterman and Mason craft songs that are on par with Neil Young, Tom Petty, Steve Earle, and Dave Alvin. Unfortunately, there's only room for a small handful of fashionable doin'-it-my-way outlaws to be propped-up by the establishment. So from a commercial standpoint, Mason and Chesterman are nearly dead in the water. But both men are content to keep dog paddling towards whatever the future holds. As Mason admits, "I don't have any illusions about people coming up to me and saying, `Hey, wanna be on my label?' I've been playing every week since I was a teenager. If I don't play, I feel kinda weird. We go, set up, and play. I have fun playing for people who like music."

"All the [artists] I like kinda fly under the radar," Chesterman adds. "I've had a little success. I'm not setting out to be a cult artist, but far better people then me have gotten far less notice. Ray's one of them. I know a lot of people who have bent over for things if the conditions were right, but he does it his way. I admire him for that."

The Ray Mason Band and Charlie Chesterman and the Legendary Motorbikes celebrate the release of their respective CDs this Saturday night at Ralph's Chadwick Square Diner, 95 Prescott St., Worcester. Call (508) 753-9543 for cover.