Great Southern Shares Dickey Betts

Great Southern Shares Dickey Betts

by Mark Greenberg

I’ll never forget the day that my friend David Stoltz, bassist for Dickey Betts & Great Southern, called me and told me that Dickey Betts was putting together a band and asked me if I might be interested in auditioning for it. It may have been the fastest “Yes” to ever come from my mouth. Of course, I knew who Dickey is. I grew up in Connecticut. The Northeast was a major stronghold for the fan base of one of the most iconic Southern rock bands in American history, The Allman Brothers Band. Even Jamioe, a founding member of the ABB, lived in Bloomfield, CT. I had met him back in 1993 and became fast friends, sitting in on that first night and breaking his snare drum head. However, the audition happened to come up right at the time I had just started playing with legendary Roomful Of Blues, having just recently replaced John Rossi, their original drummer & legend in his own right, who had been there for over 30 years. Well, I never thought twice about it.

Early one morning, while we’re on tour in Delaware, my phone rang, and I didn’t recognize the Florida number. I answer, “Hello?“. The voice on the other end, with an unmistakable southern affect, responded, “Hi Mark, this is Dickey Betts; I was wondering if you’d like to come down and audition for my band.” This now became the fastest “Yes” out of my mouth, and I also said, “I would love to.” Now the most difficult part was figuring out the date and how I was going to explain to Roomful of Blues that my six-month tenure was about to come to an abrupt end.

The next thing I know, we were all gathered in Osprey, FL, in Dickey’s garage, playing together & the first song that we played was “Jessica.” The first five notes were unmistakable and went through me like a lightning bolt. I knew this was the real deal. When we got through the interlude that led to Dickey’s solo, I can only describe the feeling as otherworldly. There is no mistaking a Dickey Betts transitional passage; when played by the ABB or even the most rudimentary local band, it tees you up like a golf ball, and it’s that vacuum of air right before the club hits the ball, that feeling that makes the crowd go wild. Yet, there was a certain unpredictability of what was to follow that always kept you on the edge of your seat, hanging on for dear life for each note that was to come.

Andy Aledort, guitarist with DB&GS, once described Dickey as complex, and I want to borrow his words.

Dickey was indeed complex. He had more facets than a diamond, covering a lot of different worlds. To many, he was a rockstar, one of the world’s most influential guitarists and songwriters. A musician who could make a Les Paul produce some of the sweetest, most thoughtful notes, and moments later, command the most searing lines out of that guitar that could rip your head off. Similarly, his talents as a composer covered everything from avant-garde jazz to roadhouse blues to soul, folk to western swing, and country to jazz fusion.

While he may have seemed aloof or inaccessible to many, when you were in his presence, you never felt left out or alone. It was like hanging out with a childhood friend. Somebody would come up with a crazy idea, and then the next thing you know, you are all doing something ridiculous, and chances are Dickey was in the lead. It didn’t matter who you were; a new Dickey story was to be born.

Music was a given with Dickey. While he was mostly self-taught, the universe was his teacher. He would recount stories of shows that the Brothers did with the Mahavishnu Orchestra and then ending up in a jam session in somebody’s apartment in New York City. In my mind, this also could’ve resulted in a song being written, somehow incorporating all of those influences. It was inevitable. In fact, when he hired me, I’ll never forget him looking me straight in the eyes and said, “I want you to play like Billy Cobham.” Somehow it made sense with where we were heading. He was, as he always seemed to be, three steps ahead of everybody else.

In all the years of touring and recording that I’ve done, I have never seen somebody so intensely engrossed in the creative process. There were countless times when he would labor over a single line. This might go on for hours until he found the right notes. He knew what he wanted. Dickey was a master songsmith. His palate was wide. His musical catalog was vast, and for such an accomplished musician, guitarist, singer, and songwriter, he was far from the end of his creative process. In fact, up until his last breath, I’m sure he was thinking about writing another song.

Andy Aledort, Writer & Editor for Guitar World Magazine and Guitarist for DB & GS, recounted Dickey’s lesson to him as a performer:

He was an intense person, and he was very passionate about the music, and he was also passionate about the connection between the music and the audience. He cared a lot about the audience. He cared a lot about the legacy of what happened with the Allman Brothers Band and that communal sense that is not unlike the Grateful Dead, where the band, the audience, and the music and everything, like all of it, it is what the thing, is it’s the combination of all of those things. That’s what music is. That is music. If you take away any of those things. If you take away any of those things, if you take away the honesty, if you take away the connection, the truth, the spirit, then all you have is a show. A show is nothing. That was a great lesson to learn from him. It isn’t even music unless we are striving for, to reach this place, to transcend this world with our audience, to bring them somewhere. It was that one note, one vibration thing. ASPIRING TO REACH A HIGHER PLANE EACH AND EVERY TIME, and short of that, you’ve failed. And he was dead serious about it. But you know, if we had an off night or a bad show, sometimes he’d come on the bus visibly angry, or he might say, “Don’t worry guys, we’ll get ‘em tomorrow night. Don’t worry about it” or if we had a great night and everybody was feeling amazing, he might say “We fooled ‘em again.”

Andy Aledort, on joining the band:

My phone rings at 10 in the morning. I looked down at my phone, and I could see it’s Dickey Betts, which at 10 in the morning could be a little bit scary. I answered, “Hey Dickey, what’s up?” and he goes, “Well, my guitar player just quit, and the tour starts in a week. Do you want to do it?” It was 2005, almost 20 years ago. My kids were like 14 and 11 and I had a full-time job, and we were producing a lot of magazines, so I said, “Yes, I definitely do. So when do you want me to come down? He said, “Now.” I said, “Well, Dickey, I can’t come right now. You just asked me a second ago.” Dickey said, “Well, come tomorrow.” I didn’t sleep at all. I wrote charts. I didn’t know “High Falls.” I didn’t know the harmony lines. I had a recording of the band playing all the songs. That’s how I learned the show. I had 30 pages of notes.

His ability to open his heart to music showed a vulnerable side few knew. While touring with Phil Lesh and Bob Weir back in 2003, Dickey came on the bus after one of our shows and started to reimagine how and when we would improvise, having been inspired by Phil & Bobby’s bands. That very next night at The West Hampton Playhouse, our band morphed into a new band, stretching and taking chances we hadn’t even conceived of being remotely possible just the night before. It was magic.

Everything emanated from Dickey’s tremendous passion for things. Whether it was songwriting, hunting, playing golf, or repainting his guitar, Dickey did things because he believed in them; of course, not everything in life is a hole-in-one, but even when he played golf, he was fiercely competitive. If you were out on the course with him, if you were Tiger Woods, he would try to give you a run for your money. It was in his DNA.

Dickey was the consummate entertainer. Whether he was on the bus with the band, on stage at the Beacon Theater, on a fishing boat, or sitting around his living room, he always had a story to tell. One of the best parts of working with Dickey was the storytelling of shows, songs, band members, producers, and promoters, both past and present. It was like majoring in Music History and getting paid to play this amazing body of music with one of the main architects of Southern Rock.

One of my favorite memories with Dickey, which has nothing to do with music, involves his car. One day, while staying at his house during a recording session, I asked Dickey if I could borrow his car. He said, “Of course, why don’t you take the Lexus?” However, he warned me. He said, “Be careful; the turn out of the garage is short, and Donna has accidentally scratched the car in the past by misjudging the turn.” Well, arrogantly, I also misjudged the turn and proceeded to not just scratch the car but get the bumper tangled up in the door and rip it right off the front of the car. Having recently been hired by Dickey, I was afraid of being fired just as quickly. I ran into the house, nearly out of breath and quite nervous. I said, “Dickey, I’m really sorry. You warned me about the garage, and I accidentally hit the door frame.” He looked up at me and almost jokingly said, “It’s probably only a little scratch.” I said, “Please come out and take a look.” He surveyed the car and the door and said, “Well, yeah, it’s a bit more than just a scratch and laughed it off.” My nickname became Rex Lexus for a while.

Dickey’s music reminded me of his heritage and affinity for Native American culture: profound, energetic, rooted, bold, animated, and still, it was mysteriously deeper than you’d think. His wisdom and inspiration seemed to come as much from the heavens as they did from the earth. There were eras, just like we have seasons, but no two were the same. He had one of the most identifiable sounds on a Les Paul, yet he masterfully wove it through a song like a single thread in an often complex tapestry. No two songs sounded the same.

While fans mostly focus on his bigger hits Like “Jessica,” “Blue Sky,” and “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed,” I believe the song “Seven Turns” may be the most profound telling of his life as the song’s origins trace back to the time he had spent with a Native American Shaman. Though each song, as he told the band, had a story behind it. And just like the rich tapestry of his music, so was his life, filled with many turns, twists, and colors.

While his body has left us, his heart and soul, through his music, remain with us, and for that, we are all richer.

– by Mark Greenberg | Visit https://greatsouthernreunion.com for upcoming tour dates.

David Spero, Legendary Manager, on how he met Dickey Betts:

It was March 2003; I was leaving the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame as the vice president of education, and at the same time, was putting together a fundraiser for the Rock Hall. As it turned out, Dickey Betts would be on that show. I met him a couple of times; I’m sure he didn’t remember. I thanked him for coming to the show, and he said to me, “So you’re the guy leaving, huh?” I said, “Yeah.” “How come?” he asked. I told him I was going to reopen my management company. “Come see me in Florida next week, let’s talk.” He said. Well, over 20 years have passed, and of all the artists I’ve ever worked with, Dickey Betts was my favorite. Being able to stand 10 feet away from him, night after night, watching him play those famous licks, it just doesn’t get better than that.
– David Spero May 30. 2024