Gurf Morlix
Gurf Morlix
Photograph by Brende Fuller
The acclaimed Austin guitarist and producer (Blaze Foley, Lucinda Williams, Slaid Cleaves, Ray Wylie Hubbard) is also fast becoming known—on the basis of his 2007 album, Diamonds to Dust (Blue Corn), and this month’s Last Exit to Happyland (Rootball)—as a songwriter.
So how are things going?
I haven’t had a day off since October. Seriously. I mean, I worked Thanksgiving.
You mean it’s been a grind finishing up this record for February, or have you been on the road a lot?
All of it. I’m finishing up on the record, and in November I went and did a Fred Eaglesmith train trip up to Hudson Bay. I looked at the polar bears and was hoping to club some baby seals, but—well, that didn’t work out [laughs]. That was incredible, and then I went back to Winnipeg, where the train left from, and I spent three weeks there producing a record. Then I got back here and started on another record. Well, I’m working on two records now, so I’m in the middle of both of them.
What are you working on right now?
Betty Soo and Porterdavis.
Both in your home studio?
Yep.
It’s getting to be a busy little place.
Right now, yeah. I could use a day off.
A lot of people don’t know much about your career before you moved to Austin. I assume you played music when you were younger and living in New York?
Yep. I started when I was fourteen or so; my first gig was probably when I was fifteen. And I never looked back. That’s what I was going to do. I knew that from the time I was about seven. Once I had the taste of playing a live show, there was no stopping me. That’s all I’ve ever done.
Did you lead any bands, or were you pretty much a guitar player?
I was always the side guy.
So when you got down to Austin, how did you meet Blaze Foley?
I was playing in a band called the Goats of Arabia, and we were playing at the Hole in the Wall—this was probably 1976 or so—and Blaze was driving down Guadalupe in someone’s car that he had borrowed. He saw “The Goats of Arabia” on the marquee, and he said, “I gotta find out who that is.” So he went to where he was staying and woke up the guy whose car it was and said, “There’s this band called the Goats of Arabia, we’ve gotta go check it out.” He walked in and introduced himself. We hit it off; he kind of attached himself to me right then.
ou played with him until you moved to Los Angeles, right?
Yeah, well, I started playing with Blaze really around 1978, and we both moved to Houston at that time. I played with him until 1981, which is when I moved out to Los Angeles.
Why did you move to Houston? Was there more work there?
Yes, Houston was booming at that point. The scene in the Montrose area was incredible, and you could play thirty nights a month in all these Montrose clubs that were full of people who had money. And you could walk to all your gigs! My amplifier stayed at one club for more than two years. I mean, I’d play there 24 times a month. It was incredible.
What happened to precipitate your move to Los Angeles?
Well, I needed more opportunity. I remember looking for a bass player in Austin, and there were only about ten to choose from. If I moved out to Los Angeles, there’d be a hundred of them. And then if none of those hundred ended up working, then there’d be another list of a hundred. I just needed to do that.
So you went to L.A. Did you move there with the intent of playing your own music?
Yeah, I had a band in Austin that really didn’t play many gigs, but we did play original music. I wasn’t the singer, but I was writing some of the songs. I moved out to Los Angeles to start a band and find more opportunities.
And instead you met Lucinda Williams. How did that happen?
She had just come out there. She was living in Austin, and she came out for a week or so to do a show. My friend Michael Bannister was going to be the drummer on this show, and I think maybe David Grissom was her guitar player then? Well, somebody was flying out from Austin to do the show but couldn’t do the rehearsals, so I just ended up doing the rehearsals as a favor. I sort of fell into her band that way. She ended up moving out there, and I ended up being first her bass player and then her guitar player.
ou spent eleven years playing with and producing for Lucinda, leaving during the Car Wheels on a Gravel Road sessions. Were those sessions really as bad as everyone’s reported?
Uh, yeah. Probably worse.
What happened?
There was always a balance of the music versus the rest of it. And then the scales tipped. You know, I could always walk away when it got crazy. And then all of a sudden I couldn’t. So I quit.
That was more than ten years ago. Have you reconciled?
No, I haven’t spoken to her.
Was 1988’s classic Lucinda Williams the first record you ever produced?
Yes. I was playing these shows with Lucinda around Hollywood, and we had a cool band and she had great songs, but we were making $8 or $10 a night—for the whole band. It was too much work for too little pay. I was trying to think of a way to tell her that I was going to quit when she called me up and said, “We have a record deal. Who’s going to produce it?” And I said, “I will!”
What made you think you could do it?
I’d always been the guy in the band with the tape recorder. I knew the records I liked, and I knew how to make things sound that way.
You’re known as a musician’s musician, but in a way, you’re an anti-musician. You’re not about flash or having a lot of gear.
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