Kevin Oliver's THE BEAT: Caught Up In a Feeling--The Runout and Jeff Gregory Build Community Around Music

“We discovered that we like eating, and we like drinking, and we like making music, preferably all at the same time,” - Jeff Gregory

For many people the ongoing pandemic has been a rollercoaster ride, but for Jeff Gregory and his band The Runout it was the catalyst for a creative community which birthed the band’s latest album With Your Eyes Closed. Early on, as artists found their footing online with live streaming to replace live in-person shows, Gregory and his wife Kelley hit upon a simple format of the two of them, a guitar and occasional piano, repeated on Wednesday nights, that resonated with them and a core group of friends and fans.  

“The pandemic really had us down, so Kelley and I found something to do to make ourselves happy and remember what singing together in high school was like,” Jeff Gregory says. 

The Runout was already a band with a couple recording sessions and a first album out, along with a number of live shows featuring an evolving lineup that currently includes Mike Scarboro on drums, Moses Andrews on bass guitar, keyboards, and organ, and Chris Compton on electric guitar alongside Jeff and Kelley Gregory. But as the pandemic dragged on and Gregory took some soul-searching, nonmusical personal time, the community drew him back in, he says.

“Thank God for Chris Compton, Patrick Leitner, Lang Owen, all of those guys asked me to get involved on their projects, just a song here and there,” Gregory says. “It spurred me on to wanting to do music again myself.” 

The community that gathered around the Gregorys shared one crucial thing, and, surprisingly, it wasn’t music–it was food. 

“We discovered that we like eating, and we like drinking, and we like making music, preferably all at the same time,” Gregory says. “It sounds silly, but a lesson we’ve learned is that when you have friendship, and good vibes, then you can have some creativity and exploration in what you’re doing.” 

The musical result of this camaraderie was The Runout’s latest album With Your Eyes Closed. The record pulls together the intimate feeling of those livestream nights with an expanded lineup that allows for full band arrangements. The tracks progress through deceptively feel-good anthems such as the bouncy Americana-esque opener, “Feelings,” and more raucous, rocking rave-ups like “Coffee and Weed.” Gregory also delves into deeper territory on tracks like the ethereal “Crooked Canyon,” a metaphorical journey to the center of one’s psyche that’s equal parts terrifying and glorious in its imagery.  

Gregory has that rarest of qualities–the ability to turn a clever phrase, but also imbue its delivery with raw, honest emotion that connects on a deeper level than the average pop song. The centerpiece of the album is “Give Up,” an irresistible tune that began life on those now long-ago livestreams with just Jeff and Kelly harmonizing to an acoustic guitar. The album version adds shimmering electric guitar to the natural connection their voices make on lyrics that anyone in a long-term  relationship can relate to: “I’ve been wanting to give up, I’ve been thinking it through…it seems I need a few more hours down this road with you.”  

Those few more hours have become months now, in pandemic times. In lieu of a club gig for the album release, The Runout staged a mini-festival they dubbed “Stump Fire Fest at a friend’s property. They invited a hundred of their fans and friends to come celebrate outdoors with them, a culmination of the community that had sustained the band to that point.

“We’re thankful for that community,” Gregory says now. “We weren’t really aware of it until that night–I think it was the result of the pandemic filtering out everything that didn’t matter, and the music was what was left.” 

The Stump Fire Fest may have set an unrepeatable precedent; in addition to the Runout, several other bands played on a small stage built just for the night, poet Al Black read between sets, and Dick Moons and his drum circle formed up around a nearby campfire as participants ate, drank, and moved between the different moving parts of the evening.  

“It really crossed scenes and generations,” Gregory says of the festival. “It wrapped up what had been a really meaningful time of making the record, too–Hanging out with Chris Compton, Sean Thomson, Patrick Leitner, Moses Andrews, that meant more to me than I realized at the time.” 

It’s the mentality of helping others, Gregory concludes, that has to survive the pandemic.

“People are wondering what’s going on in the world right now, and the answer is that nobody knows,” He says, “So what must our response be? It has to be art.” 

 

Remembering Thorne Compton, with Thoughts of Peace and Love by Dale Bailes

photo courtesy of Chris Compton

photo courtesy of Chris Compton

Thorne Compton and I met at U of SC in the early sixties. We were on the Junior Varsity, of the Debate Team. We made a mutual friend of Bob Anderson, and did our best to make this first black male student at USC feel welcome. That was an uphill battle in those days. I lost track of Bob after I left grad school in 1965; Thorne kept track and even told me of being in touch with Bob’s widow and child in recent years. 

Thorne and I met again in the early seventies. He had done a stint in the Peace Corps with first wife Jo; I had been a hippie mail man in San Francisco, among other West Coast Adventures. 

Those adventures led to my pulling together a crew of artists, Viet Nam vets, and singers and seamstresses to open the Joyful Alternative. Thorne was a regular there at our original 2009 Green Street location, stopping in for a record or a book every week, and papers. THE VILLAGE VOICE and GREAT SPECKLED BIRD, that is. 

Thorne managed to function in the academic environs better than I had. He earned a doctorate and became an English professor. When I published my first book CHERRY STONES and went to work with the Arts Commission, he invited me to do poetry readings for his classes. He would go on to deanships and department chairs. 

I pursued other interests—running a music hall at Folly Beach, getting an MFA in Screenwriting at USC/West. I taught in prisons and on Navy ships, and a planned two-year gig as an adjunct at Moorpark College in California ending up being twenty-five or thirty years. 

At one point in the eighties, Thorne got in touch to make sure I got the scoop on Carolina’s big celebration of James Dickey.  He got me in, and I was privileged to see and hear such literati as Harold Bloom and John Simon hold forth. 

It must have been about that time I began to make an effort to find a full-time teaching job SOMEWHERE, and I made yet another request of the most stolid academic friend I knew for a letter of recommendation. 

He must have written a dozen letters, without complaint. 

Until I was visiting in Columbia from California in the early nineties and ran into him at the campus bar Hunter-Gatherer. After some catch-up conversation over a beer or three, he blurted out in faux exasperation—I think—“Please don’t ask me to write anymore ________________ letters of recommendation!” 

I didn’t. 

I spent a few more years adjuncting at Moorpark until I got tired of freeways, and retired to live with my best friend Jo Baker at Pawleys Island.  Thorne, having lost his Jo years earlier, was remarried, retired, and removed to Michigan for several years. 

The odds were long that two old friends would meet again at the top of the hill where Saluda meets Heyward , but it happened. About two years ago. 

I stopped at the sign and waited for a man and his dog, motioning them to go ahead. 

Thorne and his dog Bo weren’t taking any chances, so I rolled down the window when Thorne looked closer to check my plans. Two happy old codgers, I guess we seemed to any passersby. And although Bo tugged on the leash and whimpered about having more peemail to check, we caught up a bit. I was on my way home from  my work at U of SC School of Nursing, where I occasionally was a Standardized Patient.  

He didn’t know the term. I explained I portrayed scenarios of different illness situations, with student nurses.  The irony was thick as he managed a smile and said, “I’m the real thing.” He had months, or maybe a couple years, left. 

We ended our car window conversation with a promise to get together soon for a nice bottle of red, and lots of “telling lies.” 

My personal lethargy, isolation at Pawleys, the pandemic…it didn’t happen. Most of us have made the same mistake. 

Thorne’s son Chris Compton messaged me from Los Angeles that if I was going to see him again, it should be sooner rather than later.  Thorne’s wife Raven was kind enough to arrange a visit with him the week before Easter. 

Even without a good red, we had a very good hour. We talked about Bob Anderson, the early days of Joyful, those letters of recommendation. He smiled and mentioned a memory that surprised me. “Those parties on South Walker Street. Live music and a hundred of your closest friends. Some of the best times I ever had!” 

As usual, he asked what I was writing, I told him an artist named Janet Kozachek had provided two pieces of work that had inspired some ekphrastic poems. New as the term was to me, he remembered learning it a dozen years ago. I told him I would send the art and the poems.  

I don’t know if he was able to see the stuff before he passed. One of them, with the artwork that inspired it used with the artist’s permission, is printed below. The poem, “Obeisance,” has a puckish tone that I associate with Thorne Compton, and is dedicated to his memory. As is the next glass of red I wrap my hand around.

Artist - Janet Kozachek

Artist - Janet Kozachek

OBEISANCE

  by Dale Bailes

The posture is apotropaic.

To appease Thanatos, back when.

And now to fend off his vengeful

Sibling, Erinyes.

 

It is not a conscious thing.

It is brought forth by naked fear

As pandemic stalks the land.

The gesture is archaic, bold.

 

Bare haunches taunt our oldest

Dread.  They show contempt

For knowing time is never

Long enough, nor safety certain.

 

What I create may have

A longer span. A gesture, small,

To thwart some master plan.

A wrench in the machine.

 

So. Black-robed, grinning bearer

Of the scythe—or shrieking sister

Eris—bring forth your deadly kiss.

I here present, a target you can’t miss.

 

 

Retired English instructor Dale A. Bailes commutes from the ‘hood in Pawleys to the ‘wood in Columbia for his part-time work as a Standardized Patient at the U of SC School of Nursing. He has poems upcoming in Fall Lines and AMERICAN WRITERS REVIEW.