Originally published in the June 2018 issue of (614) Magazine
When Garrett Dutton was eight years old, it was the Beatles who prompted him to take up the guitar. After learning to fingerpick Blackbird and adding a harmonica to the mix, by fifteen he was writing his own songs. But it wasn’t until he asked the owner of his local record store who else besides Bob Dylan and Neil Young played solo acoustic guitar and blew the harp that he was handed his first John Hammond album.
Though his stage name and notoriety were still years away, that was the moment Garrett became G. Love.
“When I heard his rendition of Statesboro Blues, my whole world changed,” G. Love recalled. “I was used to people strumming the guitar, and this was an entirely different sound — holding the bass, playing riffs, playing melodies, all at the same time. That sound guided me toward Delta blues.”
Faithful execution of traditional blues standards probably would have been enough to make a white kid from Philadelphia stand out amid aging hair bands, the grunge craze, or waning days of power pop. Free style rap was becoming as much a part of the emerging Philly music scene as Hall and Oates had by repurposing R&B in the 70s and 80s, or the defining influence of the Delfonics decades earlier. G. Love turned something old into something entirely new, a nod to the past with the pulse on the present.“
The hip hop side of what I do was just part of growing up in our generation and the music we listened to with our friends,” he explained. “I never really thought of myself as a rapper until one night when I was still a street musician, I finished one of my tunes and started singing Eric B. and Rakim’s ‘Paid in Full’ lyrics over the blues riff I was playing and it was like a light shown down on me. It was something no one else was doing.”
That reference to “our generation” wasn’t just a generalization. G. Love and I have some shared history, though our paths had never formally or formerly crossed. We’re the same age, and despite being unapologetically the product of urban, East Coast upbringings, our formative musical influences run a remarkably similar range from the Beastie Boys and Run DMC to Big Bill Broonzy and Robert Johnson. Just as his genre-defying debut album released, I happened to be the blues producer at a tiny public radio station that either didn’t mind (or didn’t know) how often I brought in milk crates of my own vinyl and patched the board into the only studio left that still had a working turntable. That’s when I first dropped the needle on “Cold Beverage” and the sound was unlike anything else on the air.
What easily could have been another catchy one-hit-wonder seemed to stick. Back before Spotify and SiriusXM, the way most musicians found new audiences was through independent radio and the small club circuit. That’s where G. Love and his Boston-born band, Special Sauce, won fans and defied critics. Though it’s been his enthusiasm to collaborate that continues to find new followings with albums and appearances from Ben Harper and Lucinda Williams to Keb’ Mo’ and Citizen Cope constantly redefining his raconteur style.
“Collaboration should be natural and sincere, but you don’t have to be best friends to cut a song together,” he noted. “Most musicians love to get that call to work on an album together. I know I do.”
One such call came from the Avett Brothers, who produced “Fixin’ to Die”, as well as backing G. Love with enough layered harmonies and bright banjo licks to create a credible Appalachian-inspired album of back porch blues.
“The Avett Brothers were huge fans when they were in high school. Seth had a broken cassette deck in his car that had my album ‘Yeah, It’s That Easy’ stuck in it, playing for a year,” he laughed. “They were already big when they took time out to do my album.”
Despite these seemingly unlikely musical alliances, his most well-known and enduring collaboration is probably with Jack Johnson. The two were introduced by a mutual friend and fellow surfer while G. Love was in L.A. working on an album.
“We came back to my little hotel room and traded songs after surfing all afternoon,” he revealed. “Basically every song he played went his first album, Brushfire Fairytales.”
G. Love championed Johnson’s music, even including an early bluesy release of “Rodeo Clowns” as a duet on that album, Philadelphonic. By the time Johnson was coming into his own, G. Love’s label was cutting smaller bands. Brushfire Records picked up G. Love, where his loyalties and royalties remain to this day.
It’s been a winding road, but not a weary one for G. Love and Special Sauce, celebrating the 25th anniversary of the release of their self-titled album this year with a tour of venues and cities large and small. But it’s those cities in the middle where he expects to keep finding ways to stay new and true to the music he admires and aspires.
“Twenty-five years later, I’m still finding new ways to do the same old thing. I used to get chased off the corner as a street musician, but now Philadelphia is exploding because New York has priced people out,” he explained. “Musicians, artists, and actors are going to thrive where they can afford to live, and get a little steam going. Places like Philly, Baltimore, and Columbus are where I think we’re going to see a wave of creatives over the next ten years, cities with scenes small enough to stand out, but still big enough to make an impact.” ▩
G. Love and Special Sauce will perform at the Columbus Arts Festival on June 9th. For more, visit columbusartsfestival.org
Originally published in the June 2018 issue of (614) Magazine
Bryan Michael Block wasn’t surprised when the phone rang, but it wasn’t the call he was expecting. The conversation was short, but sufficient. He opened the door to his closet and grabbed a gray-striped tie and weathered leather jacket to make sure he looked the part of a police detective. There was a serial killer, it was his job to stop him, and the clock was ticking. But this wasn’t any ordinary case. The murder he was called to solve was his own.
Block has an unsettling stature when the situation requires it. Imagine the disheveled understatement of Harrison Ford in Blade Runner amplified
by the ominous presence of Vincent D’Onofrio on a bad day. That grim
and gritty look is the reason he was originally cast as the lead actor
in the ambitious and acclaimed science-fiction series Aidan 5, which recently returned with its long-awaited second season after starting as a short nearly a decade ago.
“We didn’t know what genre was going to
get pulled out of that hat. It could have been a western or a romance.
With the 48-Hour Film Project it could have been anything,” recalled
Block, whose impulsive and intuitive wardrobe selection set the tone for
the lead character. “When they pulled sci-fi, that’s when they decided
to make a futuristic film noir.”
Professional and lifelong friendships often intersect with
the 48-Hour Film Project, an international competition where local
teams squeeze the entire motion picture production process into just two
days.
“After the acting was done against a
green screen, the backgrounds were drawn and scanned in,” Block
explained. “It was really just pen and pencil on a sketch pad, cut up in
Photoshop, and dropped into a timeline.”
The finished film was low tech, but high concept — a composite comic book look more akin to Sin City than
an A-ha music video. Audiences and the industry took notice, making the
rounds online and at larger festivals, eventually making it all the way
to Cannes. Even William Shatner tweeted his approval of its innovative
techniques and technology with the envious interrogative, “Why aren’t I
in it?”
“Ben Bays, who is also a producer here in
town, approached us after the 48 about turning it into a web series,
how we needed to take this world and expand it,” he explained. “That’s
when we started to explore the details and fill in the blanks on the
future we’d created.”
The original series opens in 2064 with
Detective James Aidan standing over his own corpse, one of several
clones with which Block appears on screen simultaneously, stitched
together digitally in post-production. A world where cloning is
commonplace was a crucial creative device and plot point that propels
the now 30-episode series. The entire production was created and
executed in Columbus essentially as a community film project, with a
cast and crew too numerous to name.
“Season One was shot for no money and was cobbled
together. But we had a lot of help between favors, friends, and
filmmakers willing to show up for several Saturdays,” Block noted.
“Season Two is three and a half hours. Add that to the three hours of
Season One and we have four feature films worth of finished content.”
The new season is still set in the same
dystopian future, and also employed the signature green screen meets
black box theater approach. But unlike the original short or the first
series that followed, Season Two took several years to complete, funded
through Kickstarter to build interest and cover incidentals.
Filming took place in Columbus as well,
minus one notable cameo that was almost too good to be true — Richard
Hatch, best known for roles in both the original and reimagined reboot
of Battlestar Galactica, but also a passionate supporter of streaming series, podcasts, and similar emerging storytelling platforms.
“We reached out to him, but knew it was a long shot. Even
though his scene was small, it was pivotal. We sent him the script and
he said he really liked the series and the part,” revealed Bays,
showrunner and executive producer of Aidan 5. “He specifically
mentioned one of the reasons he was doing it was because he was so
impressed with the production and performances in Season One and liked
working on projects with up-and-coming talent.”
Schedules didn’t align to shoot Hatch’s scene here. But a
green screen can be anywhere, so you’d never know Hatch was in L.A.
while Bays directed remotely.
“I just Skyped in and directed over a laptop,” Bays added.
“There is even a cast photo of everyone in the studio with Richard and
someone is holding up a laptop with my face on the other end.”
Aside from consistent studio space, the
second season also piqued the interest of local talent, with more than
40 speaking parts and dozens of extras populating their imaginary world.
Even the late John Kuhn, artistic director of the Actors’ Theatre of
Columbus read for a role.
“It was the first time we’d ever met him
and his voice captivated us. He had such gravitas we decided to create a
villain around it,” recalled Block, whose contributions also included
casting and helping to create the series backstory. “His performance and
reputation gave Aidan 5 a lot of legitimacy in the local the
theater community, and the episodic nature allowed us to feature local
actors in scenes where everyone felt like a guest star.”
As for the final fate of James Aidan and his clones, Bays
confirmed the series was always intended to be a trilogy — but we may
have to wait a while before the next installment of episodes, just so
everyone can catch their collective breath.
“One of the things about Aidan 5 that we love most is that it is so collaborative. It really is a group of friends working together with the local acting community to create something greater than any of us could do on our own,” explained Bays. “Whether it’s someone like Richard Hatch from L.A. or someone local like John Kuhn, the series creates an outlet for filmmakers, writers, and actors to be a part of something that puts Columbus on the map.” ▩
Originally published in the March 2018 issue of (614) Magazine
Aftermath, 2017. Photo By Brian Douglas/Courtesy Lionsgate Premiere
It’s no surprise action heroes are Hollywood’s single greatest export.
Amid wildfires, mudslides, drought, and rolling blackouts, it’s a wonder the filmmaking capital of the world has survived any better than its on-screen alter ego, regularly ravaged by everything from earthquakes to alien invasions. The cost of living is untenable, the traffic is intolerable, even the most groundbreaking feature film of last year was titled simply Get Out — and like most movies and television series these days, it wasn’t filmed there either.
California has in many ways become the star of its own disaster film. How can you tell? After years of economic malaise and mismanagement, the voters there actually asked Arnold Schwarzenegger to save them, and maybe we in Columbus should too.
This year marks the 30th anniversary of the Arnold Sports Festival, held the first weekend of this month. What started three decades ago as the Arnold Classic, the former bodybuilding championship has ballooned into a four-day health and fitness expo celebrating more than 75 established and obscure sports, from fencing to axe throwing.
But Schwarzenegger’s ties to Central Ohio run much deeper than just a long weekend once a year.
Back in 1970, Worthington Mayor Jim Lorimer invited a 23-year-old Austrian bodybuilder to the World Weightlifting Championship’s new Mr. World competition in Columbus to vie for the title and a cash prize of $500.
Arnold passed. The three-time consecutive winner of the Mr. Universe competition was already scheduled to defend his title in London, but Lorimer wasn’t taking no for an answer. He offered to fly Schwarzenegger back from London to Columbus immediately after the event there so he could compete.
Outside the then close-knit bodybuilding community, Arnold was just some guy who struggled to shop off the rack. That was all about to change. He won both Mr. Universe and Mr. World in the same weekend, a feat that was featured on ABC’s wildly popular Wide World of Sports, introducing him to his largest audience to date.
Schwarzenegger confided in Lorimer his dream of sponsoring his own tournament after he retired from the sport, and a seed was planted. After hosting several successful Mr. Olympia competitions here in the ’70s, and a brief acting hiatus in the early ’80s, Arnold ultimately launched his own competition in Columbus 30 years ago this month.
So what does that have to do with our fledgling film industry? More than you think.
Arnold has become an ambassador for Columbus for more than just sports. His annual health and fitness expo celebrates the city as much as the events and athletes. His own celebrity doesn’t just rub off on us; he’s helped introduce us to new audiences, just like we did for him with that first Mr. World competition.
He could have talked his action hero buddies Sylvester Stallone and Bruce Willis into opening Planet Movies anywhere on Earth, the motion picture rival to Hard Rock Café that coupled a Planet Hollywood restaurant with an upscale movie theater complex. But he chose Easton Town Center, and even though the concept was short-lived, the investment and effort shouldn’t be forgotten.
Action heroes also have a reputation for formulaic personas from one film to the next. Schwarzenegger is the exception, never afraid to try something unexpected or face the critics if an endeavor falls flat.
Yes, he’s been a barbarian, a commando, a spy, a hitman, and a killer cyborg from the future. But he’s also been a kindergarten teacher, Danny DeVito’s genetic better half, and even pregnant. His blockbuster appeal hasn’t stopped him from making fun of his own typecasting or being cast against type. Recent performances in Maggie as the protective father of girl slowly succumbing to a global pandemic that turns victims into zombies, and in Aftermath as an anguished survivor determined to avenge his family’s death from a mid-air collision, show an unexpected range and depth.
As soon as you think you know Arnold, he’s going to do something to prove you wrong.
How did your experience with the Arnold Classic influence the decision to shoot the film Aftermath here? What makes Columbus ideal as an emerging film city?
Columbus is a fantastic place for anything and everything. I’ve spent time in Columbus for 48 years through our bodybuilding championship, that then developed into the world championships in many different sports through our sport and fitness festival. It’s a perfect place that I use as an example, where the private sector and public sector work really well together. They’re very well coordinated. There’s no “we” against “them.” It’s always “us,” and it’s always what is best for the community. It doesn’t matter if it’s Republicans or Democrats in office, they all know they ultimately have to serve in a way to bring more businesses here. I have seen the great growth of the Arnold Classic and how dedicated the city officials are, and also the people at the state level. They’ve helped us every step of the way to make the Arnold Classic Sports and Fitness Festival successful. This is how it became the biggest in the world. This year we have 20,000 participants from 80 different nations. It’s gigantic, and we wouldn’t be able to do it anywhere else than Columbus.
When I did the movie Aftermath, I told the production company when there was a debate about should we go to Atlanta, or New Mexico, or Cleveland, I said to them, “Look, let me explain to you a little about Columbus…”. I told them basically what I told you. It’s an extraordinary place, and that I’ve talked to the mayor many times, the governor many times, and they all said if you come here with a production, we will help you because we want to establish ourselves as a city where you should go to shoot movies. Big movies, small movies, documentaries, whatever you want to do. So I took the risk. I said, “I’m not going to do the movie unless we shoot it in Columbus.” They decided to investigate, to check into it, and this is why after looking around, talking to the film commission, they realized this is a very friendly place where they are opening up their arms to productions. So we shot the movie here and the producers walked away absolutely delighted with one of the best experiences they’ve ever had.
My idea was that this would be the opening, and those production people would go to Hollywood and tell others about it. That’s exactly what happened.
This is why I think it’s a great place. Because people work together, they work tirelessly. People are talented here — the stage crew, the people who build sets — they’re energetic, they’re passionate. This is something you cannot buy. It’s not just tax credits. I made this clear, Columbus maybe doesn’t have the best tax credits, but you will get your money’s worth in many other ways, and it paid off.
Why is it important to take risks in film? Why do actors need to take risks, why do filmmakers need to take risks? Why is it important to get out of your box?
I don’t think there’s a difference from one field to another. One cannot say, why do you need to take risks in movies, why do you need to take risks in the parts that you play, what genre of movies you make? There are people who love to take risks, and there are people who like to play it safe. I think I’ve always been a person who thrives on risk. When I started in bodybuilding back in Austria they said, “You’ll never be a bodybuilder. Austrians are known for soccer and skiing. But bodybuilding? Forget it.” But I took the risk. It’s no different than taking the risk of running for governor. In movies, you have to take risks. Hollywood is a place that loves to put you in a box. You’re the action guy. You’re going to make action movies, and you’re going to do one script after the next — which I did, and that was very successful during the ’80s and ’90s. But there’s a time when I’ve done enough of that, after I’ve satisfied the studios’ needs, to show that I can do other things, that there’s a different Arnold in there than most people know. So I take the risk.
When I did Twins, I said to the studio, I know you don’t want to put much money behind this like an action movie. They said they wanted to make a minimum amount, and I said, “Then, don’t pay me? I’ll take the risk. It’s my first comedy. Why don’t you not pay me or the director or Danny DeVito, and just give us the back end?” We took that risk and it was my most successful movie at that time in my life, and I had a backend of 20 percent.
You couldn’t ever get that deal today. It was all about being able to take that risk.
When you get to be more mature, with age you’re much more believable to play a father in Aftermath or in Maggie, with more acting than action. When you’re younger and an action star, they won’t write material like this for you. They write scenes with great action, but they won’t write scenes with great dialogue and great character building. That’s just the way it is. For me, it was great to take those risks whether it’s Aftermath and Maggie, or Twins and Kindergarten Cop and Junior. I wanted to branch out because there is a side of me that is also like that. So I think taking risks in which parts you take and which productions you choose is absolutely essential.
Typecasting is tough to escape, with studios and with audiences. Is there a role or genre of film that you haven’t done and would like to?
We’re putting together a western. I’ve never really done one, and I’ve always wanted to do a western. It’s being developed with Amazon and it’s going to be eight segments, like a miniseries. It’s a terrific project — very intense, action-packed, great characters. We’ll most likely start shooting next year. It’s being written right now. This year, I’m going to be shooting Terminator in Spain, and Budapest, Hungary. We’re finalizing the script for Triplets, which will be a sequel to Twins with Eddie Murphy as the third twin brother.
The industry and audiences are still divided over the use of computer generated versions of real actors and actresses. As someone who has starred opposite a CGI version of his younger self twice, what’s your opinion on the use and future of computer generated actors?
I want to see movies that are thoroughly entertaining. I don’t look at it as whether it’s computer generated or not. Wise directors like James Cameron who use visual effects will make sure those things he can do in real life, he will shoot in real life. I think if it is well done, it’s okay to use the technology because that’s why it was developed in the first place, to be able to entertain people better. If the script says the Terminator looks exactly the same as he did in 1984, the reality is that my body doesn’t look the same as it did in 1984. So whether you computer generate it, or use someone else’s body, or they enhance your body, or use someone else’s body and put your face on it, depending on what the script says, it may be the only way you can do it. In Conan the Barbarian, I had to fight a giant snake. You could tell that it was mechanically operated, and people didn’t mind because it was the only technology available then. Computer generated technology has a very important part in movie making. I don’t mind it at all if I get enhanced one way or another to look younger — like if my character is supposed to be 50, instead of 70 — any help I can get, I’ll take it.
Speaking of reboots,I’d be remiss not to ask if King Conan rumors are true. Is there another Conan installment we can look forward to with an elder Conan?
That is correct. Those movies were really big hits way back when. It’s a theme in Hollywood, to come back to titles that are well-known. Independent companies take risks with production titles no one has ever heard of or that are new. But studios like recognizable names. That’s why Twins is becoming Triplets, it’s why they’re now writing King Conan, which is why there’s a Terminator 6 — which is all good for me, to keep those franchises alive.
Some parents push their kids into their own profession. Others push them away. The upcoming release of Midnight Sun is your son Patrick’s first starring role. How do you feel about him getting into the family business?
I never discouraged him from going into the movie business. I think it’s a great business to be in. But I also make it clear to all of my kids — no matter which field they get into — they have to be smart with business, and they have to be smart with money. My son is very serious about acting, but he’s also very serious as a businessman. He’s always been entrepreneurial. While I’m proud of him and his work in the movies, I’m also proud of him and his work outside the movies — so that he never ends up being vulnerable. It’s important to have a passion for acting, but it’s also important to be financially independent — not having to sell out and take a role just because they offer good money. He’s really serious about acting, but he’s also really smart about it. I was so proud when I saw his movie, and I think people are going to be surprised by his performance.
As a Midwestern city, Columbus can pretend to be anywhere on film, but many filmmakers don’t realize it. How practical is it to shoot here instead of more familiar film cities?
Columbus has so many different sides to it. When we shot Aftermath, we had no problem finding any backdrops whatsoever. The plane crash site was done a little bit outside of Columbus, we shot in a jail and had free reign over that location. You can find government buildings and high-rises, dangerous looking alleys. If it’s a modern looking shopping mall, there’s Easton Town Center. If you want to find a nice Spielbergian kind of community like you see in many of his movies, you have that in Columbus. You literally have everything that you need. I don’t think there is anything anyone would say you don’t have. If you’re shooting a movie that takes place in New York, I would highly recommend you shoot 95 percent of the movie in Columbus. Five percent of the movie — all of the exteriors, walking on 42nd Street or Broadway, or Central Park or aerial shots of the city — you go to New York to shoot that. But the rest it? You can shoot it all in Columbus. ▩
The 30th annual Arnold Classic will take place March 1 – 4. Aftermath is available for rent on iTunes, Amazon and YouTube.
Originally published in the March 2018 issue of (614) Magazine
I Am Wrath by Brian Douglas
A rare mix of quintessential and gritty interiors and exteriors, and accidental advantages of geography, should make our city ripe for the red carpet. Creating a permanent production presence in the heart of Ohio is fundamental to attracting the caliber of projects and professionals necessary to escape the cycle of movies that blow through town, but are out in 30 days or less—spending welcome dollars for sure, but not exactly adding to our capacity or credibility as a “film city.”
Atlanta has recently reinvented itself as a production powerhouse, rivaling Los Angeles and New York last year for films and television series both within its municipal borders and throughout Georgia. It was an investment years in the making that required a fair amount of faith and financing from the public and private sector to achieve. Just like the latest breakout stars on the big screen, overnight success is hardly ever so. Perseverance, pluck, and a lot of luck play into landing that one big role that suddenly changes everything.
Maybe our time as well has finally come.
“It’s surprising how many people there are from Ohio, and even from Columbus, who are in the industry and want to bring projects back here,” explained John Daugherty, executive director of the Columbus Film Commission. Facilitating production is the primary charge of any film commission, but Columbus is committed to tapping into the collaborative spirit and creative connectivity that distinguish the capital city even from nearby rivals Cleveland and Cincinnati.
“That’s what makes us unique—we bring people together. When someone calls me with an issue in the middle of production, I can usually get on the phone and have a solution in ten minutes because everyone in the industry here wants to help us succeed.”
Columbus also has the benefit of being a burgeoning locale for filmmaking, not one that has been exhaustively overshot for decades. What we may lack in iconic landmarks or familiar facades we more than make up for in backdrops that have yet to be discovered. We may not have the Statue of Liberty or the Bradbury Building, but we also don’t have the baggage that comes with them.
“There’s a lot of newness and freshness, vibrancy to the city. When we talk to producers about shooting here, there is some initial vetting to determine what they want and need,” Daugherty explained. “Then they come in and we show them the locations we have to offer. Once I get them here, it’s a pretty easy sell.”
Often described as a city of neighborhoods, the distinctive style from one to the next allows us to easily pose for another time or place. Period pieces and contemporary stories share the need for immediately transporting an audience. Communities of craftsman homes, quaint 60s suburbs, and more modern urban row houses are all within minutes of each other. From stately Victorian homes on both sides of downtown to picturesque country manors an easy drive away, there probably isn’t another city in the country with a better or broader range of residential architecture. German Village’s narrow brick homes and cobblestone streets could easily pass for Germany itself.
As evidenced by I Am Wrath, even our old barbershops look badass with the right lighting—decidedly, and ironically, unfamiliar. Though impressive locations are only part of the package.
“Because Cleveland, Cincinnati, even Pittsburgh are just a couple of hours away, we can pull crew and gear to Columbus when we need it,” he said, noting that our proximity creates the potential to tap into more robust film resources in surrounding cities, but also to lend our talent and tools as an interim step toward building our own sustainable industry. “If you’re shooting in Cleveland and have to drive to Cincinnati for a piece of equipment, that’s an all-day trip. We use our central location to market Columbus over both as a built-in benefit.”
Though there is certainly rivalry among the big three cities competing for productions, there is also common cause when it comes to tax credits. A staple for states like California, New York, and Georgia (and all of Canada), legislators hoping to create work in motion pictures and television offer various incentives for projects tied to the jobs they generate.
“I keep mentioning Cleveland and Cincinnati because they have their own film commissions that have been around longer than ours, and we all compete for the same pot of money,” Daugherty admitted. “But that’s also one of the areas where we’ve been working together, to raise that tax credit. We’ve increased it from $20 million to $40 million. However, because of the way the tax credit is structured, one production can come in a wipe that all out.”
Daugherty is advocating a restructuring of the program to ensure that doesn’t happen. He’d like to see something more in-line with what other states have done to protect their incentives and prevent huge projects from tapping the entire fund, thus cutting out smaller productions that really rely on it. Capping the maximum amount of credit per project, creating an earmark for Ohio-based productions, or pinning payouts to the number of permanent jobs created are all means used elsewhere to achieve the intended effect.
“Attracting film productions is fine, but that’s not all the tax credit was for. I think most legislators would agree it’s for cultivating and building businesses and production companies that live and breathe in the state,” he explained. “But that’s a process that takes time.”
Sometimes it’s the little things that impress. One concept created to help make Columbus more inviting for filmmakers is a simple card good for discounts on dining and transportation for visiting productions. Daugherty credits the “crew card” for recently drawing at least one producer’s attention away from Cleveland toward Columbus. Hospitality matters.
Investments aren’t always economic. Maintaining relationships with those working in the film industry with Columbus ties is also a long-term proposition, but one that Daugherty hopes can create a recurring series of projects.
“Growing relationships takes longer than landing one film. I’d like to see producers return with future films as well,” he said. “We’re also considering options for an expat incentive to lure filmmakers with local ties to return to Columbus—moving expenses perhaps, enough to give someone that last push they may need to move back.”
Closing the crew gap is a key concern for the Columbus Film Commission. It’s difficult to attract and retain talent without enough work, and challenging to attract enough work unless we already have the local talent required.
“We can still supply smaller productions in Columbus, and larger ones by borrowing crew and equipment from surrounding cities,” he noted. “But a lot of our crew are also working in the commercial industry, which sometimes limits their availability for visiting film projects.”
Much like photographers who shoot weddings on the side so they can afford to follow their passion projects with less pressure to pay the bills, commercial filmmaking is the proving ground and steady paycheck for a lot of local filmmakers.
“That’s how we increase our pool of technical talent. I’d like to see more commercial work staying in Columbus instead of leaving,” Daugherty suggested. “Can you imagine the impact on the local film industry if Nationwide, Wendy’s, and Huntington all agreed to keep just one percent of their commercial business here in Central Ohio—the number of jobs that would create and freelancers that could support?”
Columbus is increasingly ready to jump from supporting character to starring role when the right opportunity comes along. Measures of success in film and television aren’t easy to pin down, but Daugherty has distilled all of these individual efforts down to a simple strategy.
“My goal is to get four films a year and a series of some sort. Between that and more commercial projects, we could keep 300 to 400 people working year round,” he said. “After that, there’s enough experience, equipment, and momentum to bring in bigger projects. That’s how you become a film city.” ▩
Originally published in the March 2018 issue of (614) Magazine
Illustration by Dustin Goebel
Chuck Lamb clutched his mother’s hand as the steady stream of mourners approached his father’s casket. He recognized a few faces from the family’s infamous backyard poker parlor, attracting traveling card sharks eager to ante up with the local gambling legend and sometimes moonshiner. Even Chuck had his own side hustle since the age of six, running sandwiches and chips to the players for tips long into the night.
For someone as fabled as his father, the funeral still had way too many folks for just family and friends. Reverend Billy Graham himself was there to deliver the eulogy, but it was the guys in fitted suits and fedoras that stood out in rural North Carolina — each passing by the casket in suspicious silence. Chuck whispered into his mother’s ear wanting to know why they were there. Her reply was almost prophetic.
“They’re here to make sure he’s really dead.”
Columbus seems to inspire unlikely celebrities, from a long-shot boxer named Buster to a guy whose penchant for potato salad nearly broke the internet. Chuck Lamb may not have the same name recognition or notoriety, but you’d be hard-pressed to find any actor more committed to character. He’d moved here to his mother’s hometown as a wide-eyed kid from the foothills of Appalachia, but always dreamed of something a bit bigger. Without the looks or chops expected by an industry built on image and experience, this everyman turned a singular skill into a career as a corpse.
Chuck Lamb is the “Dead Body Guy”.
“It was always on my bucket list to see my name in the credits for a movie or television show,” he explained. “I loved the beginning of Law & Order. Every episode opened with Jerry Orbach standing over a dead body making some smart-ass remark.”
Chuck and his wife Tonya hatched a plan. Posed in creative states of comical demise, she photographed her husband for the newly registered deadbodyguy.com website, which he’d whipped together on a whim. (Television crime dramas must always be looking for victims, right?)
“She came up with several clever ways to kill me and we posted the pictures. Tonya made up the blood and everything,” Lamb quipped. “Within six weeks, we were on the front page of the New York Times.”
That’s when macabre soon became surreal. Eager to land the first morning television interview, the major networks each angled for Lamb’s exclusive attention.
“I was on the phone at home with both the Today Show and CBS, clicking between the two, and Good Morning America on my cellphone — all at the same time,” Lamb recalled. “They all wanted me to do their show first.” NBC ultimately came back with the best offer, a promised appearance on one of their series, and CBS was still ready to send a limo to pick him up at Rockefeller Center to immediately do their show the same day. ABC wasn’t interested in third place and passed altogether, or so it seemed.
“I was at Port Columbus getting ready to catch my flight to New York and a camera crew from ABC tried to ambush me for an interview to air on Good Morning America before I could get to the Today Show,” he revealed. Lamb was having none of it. “When I got there, NBC actually booked my hotel room under an assumed name to keep the other networks from finding me.”
Forget slasher movies — network television is cut-throat.
Numerous notable and also-ran roles followed, but never quite ignited demand for a well-seasoned stiff. Expectations were high for an appearance on an episode of the sitcom “What I Like About You”, but most of Lamb’s cameo was left on the cutting room floor.
“I went out there for two days, sat for hours and hours, and all you see is me slumped over and my bald head. They never showed my face,” Lamb lamented. “That was supposed to be my breakout performance. But if you blinked, you missed it.”
There was also that time the Dead Body Guy bumped into the Terminator.
Schwarzenegger happened to be walking into Hollywood Casino at the same moment as Lamb. It turns out Chuck had worked on a TV pilot with Arnold’s old acting coach and introduced himself. The two shared memories of working with their mutual friend while someone from Schwarzenegger’s entourage ran out to the parking lot to grab a copy of his autobiography, Total Recall, which Arnold personally inscribed.
Lamb’s most recent television work was his most animated to date, an upcoming appearance on the game show reboot of To Tell The Truth, featuring Denise Richards, Kal Penn, Ken Marino, and Theresa the Long Island Medium. Celebrity contestants ask a panel of three guests questions and try to guess who are the imposters, and who is telling the truth. Chuck’s delivery was, of course, deadpan.
“The producers contacted me about doing the show. We shot it months ago, but it hasn’t aired yet,” he noted. “Theresa came over and asked to see all of our hands and immediately said she knew who it was. I fooled two of the four.”
Celebrity, living or otherwise, was at best a stunt that seemed to outlast its original intent, and Law & Order. Following a few unfortunate injuries, and multiple back surgeries, Lamb realized retirement was in his cards. (Save maybe a casting call from The Walking Dead — a dying wish, if you will.)
“After more opportunities and laughs than I ever expected or deserved, I need to stop before it actually kills me.” he explained, suggesting he’d like to pass on the legacy and namesake of the Dead Body Guy to the right person, like Zorro or Batman handing the mask to the next anonymous hero. “I don’t want this dream to die with me.” ▩
Originally published in the January 2018 issue of (614) Magazine
The line to get in the city’s newest hot spot already stretched down the sidewalk, so I discreetly slipped in the side door. Down some stairs and through the commotion of the kitchen, I was politely ushered into the heart of the restaurant where the owner eagerly waited to greet me with a firm handshake and the best table in the house.
It wasn’t quite the Copacabana scene from Goodfellas, but it was damn close.
Even from across a room, Jeff Ruby is larger than life. With an unmistakable swagger and swirl of smoke, he conducted an orchestra of carpenters and electricians like woodwinds and brass, using his cigar as a baton to maintain the brisk tempo.
Less than a month from opening, his latest signature steakhouse in downtown Columbus was far from finished. It was a symphony of chaos.
“Columbus is a city we’ve had our eyes on for a long time,” said Ruby, whose ominous silhouette and brash persona may seem at odds with the requisites of a restaurateur. He’s more of a midwestern wiseguy. But it’s that stubborn, straight-shooting style that is surely behind his acclaim, not an impediment. “It’s close to our headquarters so we can pay close attention to it. We don’t like to go far from home. That’s when quality suffers.”
Plans to open at Easton were scuttled by Smith & Wollensky, and efforts to move into the empty Morton’s location also fell through. But that closing, and the western migration of Hollywood Casino’s Final Cut left a void for a downtown steakhouse Ruby was ready to fill.
“People from Columbus have been supporting our restaurants in Cincinnati for decades. They’ve been telling us for years to open in Columbus,” Ruby noted. “They don’t come to our restaurants because they’re hungry. They can go to the refrigerator. There is a sense of experience here.”
That “experience,” even in a city like Columbus with a booming restaurant scene, isn’t always enough. Generational and economic trends are conspiring against institutions and cultural rituals that used to define our social interactions. Uber Eats, Door Dash, and a dozen similar services are becoming to the restaurants business what Netflix and Redbox have to movie theaters. Both industries are struggling just to get people off the couch.
The motion picture metaphor doesn’t escape Ruby.
“The restaurant business, in my view, is living theater. Everyday a curtain goes up and you have a new audience. I named my company Jeff Ruby Culinary Entertainment because we’re in the entertainment business,” he said. “When we open a new restaurant, we have a casting call. We audition our employees. Everyone has a role. I tell a story with every restaurant.”
That story certainly didn’t spare any expense in the props department or set dressing either. Even those familiar with the space wouldn’t recognize it. The former 89 Fish & Grill, Michael O’Toole’s Restaurant & Bar, and a Damon’s Grill before that, all seem as sparsely appointed as a college dorm room by comparison.
“Our audience digests the ambiance with every sip of wine and every bite of food,” Ruby chided. “I had an unlimited budget, and I exceeded it.”
A grand statement for certain, but no less grand than the tin ceilings and tufted seats with old wood charm and old world touches on every surface. Walking through the still incomplete dining space, Ruby was eager and easily able to tell the backstory of every fixture and finish. From the stained glass windows to the wall sconces, Ruby’s a bit of an auction enthusiast, with some pieces purchased years ago and squirreled away in a warehouse waiting for just the right spot in the just the right restaurant.
If you want to know when and where the chandelier over your table was procured, the name of the Vermont electrician who rewired it, and the tiny Chicago company that restored the crystal to its original luster, just ask Jeff — he can probably tell you off the top of his head.
Lights may dim as they grow older, but Ruby has not.
For those unfamiliar with Ruby, he’s kind of a big deal. So much so, it’s hard to know exactly how big. He says he’s the first to put a sushi bar in a steakhouse in the 1980s, a point of pride illustrated as he was interrupted to personally decide the exact sequence of the tiles behind the sushi bar in the middle of our conversation. He also claims he coined the term “servers assistants” for busboys as well, now industry standard jargon for fine dining establishments.
Whether or not he used to have the pull to get players traded from the Cincinnati Reds, or is personally responsible for getting the band Survivor played on the radio (both assertions from his autobiography) remains unclear. But in an industry of imitators, there is no denying Ruby is an original without equal.
“Ballplayers, babes, businessmen, barflies, blue bloods, and blue hairs,” is how he described the diverse clientele of his earlier restaurants, where guests wearing blue jeans would pull up in a Rolls Royce because the atmosphere defied the stuffy conventions of other fine dining restaurants. “We dry-aged our own steaks on the premises, other steakhouses dry-aged their waiters.”
Serving French fare, seafood, sushi, and comfort food classics all on the same menu made each restaurant surprisingly approachable. They were never, as Ruby put it, “steak it, or leave it” — they were familiar, but with fanfare.
“Our macaroni and cheese has five imported cheeses, and was named the best mac and cheese in America by Food Network,” Ruby revealed. “We worked five years on the recipe.”
That reputation for unapologetic precision is why thousands of applications were winnowed down to roughly 80 positions at the new Columbus location. Ruby insists on the best steaks and the best staff, with training taking them to Cincinnati to ensure the people are as well prepared as the dishes themselves.
“The culinary staff — the entire staff — is the best we’ve put together in any city where we’ve opened,” Ruby boasted, and he would know. As we toured the various dining rooms, upstairs and downstairs, he called every tradesman and employee by name, though everyone simply addressed him as “Mr. Ruby.” By the time we reached the kitchen, still in the midst of construction, a handful of staff were wrapping up an order of subs for lunch. Ruby joined in and offered to pick up the bill — but made it clear the place better get his order right, or else. He’s still a Jersey boy at heart, never shying away from an Italian sub or a knuckle sandwich.
The timing of the Columbus expansion also offers some serendipity. The aging but active Ruby — or as his family calls him, J.R. — is facing the same challenge as any small family restaurant. That’s why his kids are stepping in while they still have the opportunity to learn from their father and preserve the legacy of the family business.
“I never knew my father,” he explained. “My mother was married four times. I called them my ‘four fathers,’ but none were my biological father. I didn’t know who he was until I was a senior in high school.”
After opening the Waterfront, Ruby made what was likely his most unexpected business move amid overwhelming success: he stopped opening restaurants.
“I wanted to see my kids grow before I saw my company grow,” he said. “I wanted to be a father. I wanted to wait for them to grow up.”
“It’s too bad I don’t have as many brothers as we have restaurants,” laughed Britney Ruby Miller, daughter and now president of Jeff Ruby Culinary Entertainment. Though she admits sometimes their conversations tend to revolve around work, everyone makes extra efforts to ensure they do more than just talk shop. “It’s very easy to get so consumed with work that we forget about what’s most important — our relationships.”
Son Brandon, now corporate director of training has seen this on the menu for years.
“From the time I was able to even recall, I wanted to be a restaurateur like my father. I even wrote it down on a list of questions in first or second grade, but did not spell restaurateur correctly — nor was I close,” he said.
Dillon, the youngest of the three who ended up taking over at the Nashville location after the general manager didn’t work out, is excited to see how something new plays out in Columbus.
“Because we’re opening a steakhouse that is so completely different than what anyone in this town has ever seen before, that’s a huge risk. The fact that we took the risk and see it paying off with all the success we have had in the past year is definitely a pleasant surprise.”
Now, with the Ruby clan all grown up, Jeff got to have his steak and eat it, too. He’s maintained a great relationship with his kids — and now, they’re the core of his team professionally.
“I waited for my kids to grow up before expanding the business,” he said. “Now they aren’t just the reason I want to expand. They are the reason we can expand.” ▩
The new Jeff Ruby Steakhouse is open at 89 E Nationwide Blvd. For more, visit jeffruby.com
Originally published in the September 2017 issue of (614) Magazine
Just one final sound check as fans shuffled in. Even with the rain, parking was tight as a few latecomers found their floor seats. No one seemed to mind. It was an exclusive, one-night-only performance from an up-and-coming band and the venue was perfect.
But this wasn’t a sold-out stadium, posh theater production, or small club gig — it was Kelli and Matt’s living room. This was a house show.
Making it as an indie band on the road isn’t easy, or cheap. It can cost a small fortune to break even. Gas and lodging are given, so the only real gain is the gate. The club circuit used to champion emerging acts. Now many are hardly any better than arenas when it comes to their cut.
Imagine the allure of a tour with no bookers, bouncers, barflies, or bullshit getting in the way. That alternative is house shows — private concerts in the backyards and living rooms of loyal fans who supply the venue and promote the show, often putting up the band overnight.
When Westgate couple Kelli and Matt Blinn decided to open their home to The Rough & Tumble, a Nashville folk duo they barely knew, they weren’t entirely sure what to expect.
“We actually didn’t meet the band until they showed up at our house,” recalled Kelli. “Our mutual friend, who is close with The Rough & Tumble, called in February and said, ‘My friends have this band and they’re doing a house show tour this year. Would you be interested?’.”
Tiny shows are hardly the next new thing. In my youth, my favorite venue was the Birchmere, outside DC in a then tourist-beware section of Alexandria. It was dark and dank. You had to go through the kitchen to get to the bathroom and the whole joint tipped toward a huge floor drain where they presumably washed away the thin film of beer at the end of the night.
But it was acoustically solid in its simplicity, small enough for everyone to sing to the walls. Established acts used it as a warm-up for bigger shows the following evening. Newcomers found new audiences and made enough to make it to the next show down the road. I once saw Taj Mahal play an epic three-hour set there the night before I saw him again at the Warner Theater. Guess which show was better, and cost less than the average cab fare?
The Birchmere still hosts bands, and for a while even weddings and bar mitzvahs. The location and the neighborhood have changed too, as has the whole club circuit. Cover charges are routinely higher than tickets used to be, but the band sees very little of it. Live music used to be the hook; now it’s just the noise. A glorified gastropub with a poorly promoted band in the background is practically as disconnected from the old club scene as many millennials are from terrestrial radio.
That’s why house shows are the next new thing. They connect the band with the audience free from the traditional gatekeepers.
“House shows were something we stepped into almost immediately because of the sense of community they create,” explained Mallory Graham, whose haunting vocals and menagerie of unlikely instruments form half of The Rough & Tumble.
“I think your songs go a lot further than at a bar or coffee shop. There are fewer barriers between you and your audience,” added Scott Tyler, whose voice and guitar complete the group’s traditional, yet contemporary sound.
The two are true troubadours, with a 16-foot camper and a couple of dogs in-tow, their conversation goes back and forth just like their lyrics — catchy and clever, then stirring and soulful, without ever skipping a beat.
“We played our first house show at a friend’s who had previously hosted David Bazan. He was doing this tour where he called out to people and said, ‘I’m done with venues for a while. Does anyone want to open their living room?’ Our friend volunteered. We went and loved it,” recalled Graham. “When we first became a band, we asked if she’d be interested in hosting our first show as well. It was really our debut to our family and friends in Nashville.”
All traveling musicians have cautionary tales. Folk bands just tend to tell them better — like the gig that was straight out of Twin Peaks.
“The moment I saw the missing girl poster I felt a little suspicious,” Graham noted. “Then when the little person and the giant came in? Well, it wasn’t a giant, but a VERY tall person. Then a woman walked in and put a huge log on the bar, and that sealed the deal.”
“It was a hunting lodge about ten miles from the Canadian border in Vermont,” Tyler continued. “We weren’t sure if people were putting us on, or if our buddies knew where we were playing and had hired actors. But it was definitely bizarre.”
There was also that time when a bartender suggested they set up near the pool tables instead of the stage, because the last time an act inadvertently interrupted the nearby card game, the band needed stitches.
“Had we not been double booked with a metal band, I feel like we might have tried to play that gig. After bowing out and dodging a bullet, we became much more intentional about our booking,” Graham admitted. “We gained self-respect that night. That’s more important than a gig at a bar,” Tyler confessed.
The revelation proved pivotal, and house shows became integral to the band’s schedule and strategy. Admittedly, you won’t find many metal bands doing a living room set. Folk music is a genre of personal persuasion, and you can be just as effective playing to one person as an entire room. But that doesn’t diminish the unique opportunities a smaller space affords, or the advent social media makes possible.
“We were playing a show in South Dakota, opening for a band in Brookings. Some people who had seen us there the year before came out and said, ‘Hey, we were expecting you to play longer?’,” recalled Graham. “They asked, ‘If we can rally 20 people, and find you a venue, will you come back and play Monday night? We saw on your schedule that you’re playing in the next town, so there won’t be a lot of travel.’ They really did their research, so we said sure, and it was awesome.”
“After that show, someone contacted us on Facebook, ‘My sister said you played an impromptu show Monday. I live three hours from there, and you’re going to be passing through to get to your next town. Will you come play for us too?’,” Graham explained. “We ended up playing in a town of 400, and 100 people showed up. They were so generous and excited to have music in their town.”
That’s also the genius of house shows, and tours built around them. The Rough & Tumble once played up to 150 gigs and drove 50,000 miles a year. They’ve been able to scale back that grueling schedule because a legion of supporters at every stop made it possible, and profitable. A suggested donation and self-serve selection of CDs and swag are still better than what most bands make in an average night tearing tickets and managing merch. It sounds complicated and calculated, but it’s much more organic.
“Matt and I have hosted a lot of things, and this was probably the easiest — and we’ve never done anything like it,” Kelli explained. “It was kind of like a potluck, but more ‘bring your own everything’. If we were outside, people would have to bring their own seats and blankets. That really took the pressure off of us as hosts.”
“Everyone introduced themselves to each other as they arrived, which for a concert was weird, but refreshingly weird,” Matt noted.
“There’s always the risk of opening your home to strangers, to the band itself or the dozens of people who might show up,” Kelli said. “I was surprised people would show up to someone’s house who they didn’t even know.”
Like many social media communities, The Rough & Tumble’s fans are connected to each other, not just the band. Though technically strangers, they hardly seem like it, or stay that way for long. The weather was a more imminent concern.
“We had this vision for how our backyard was going to look, and we felt like we could accommodate more people more comfortably outdoors. That was the feel we were going for — an outdoor, summer show,” Kelli noted. “Then when it was calling for rain, we worried that people might not come, or we’d have to figure out how to fit them all in our house. But it rained, and people came, which made it a small, wonderful, intimate show once everyone squeezed in.”
Unlike the typical tour where the band quickly disappears backstage or hides out on the bus, this concert ended where most parties do — in the kitchen. Artists and audience swapped stories seamlessly as insights on old songs and inspiration for new ones ebbed and flowed. From the backstory on The Rough & Tumble’s tribute album to 24 obscure and imaginary holidays to the happy accident of writing a song about cicadas in the same key the alien insects sing, any doubts about the unparalleled interaction of a house show were settled.
“Often we will walk into a show and people feel like they already know us, so we get to take three steps further into our lives because the norm of our abnormal life is already out there,” explained Graham. “The lack of a stage allows for a different kind of connection with the audience.” ▩
For more on Rough & Tumble’s perpetual road trip, follow them on Facebook and Instagram
Originally published in the August 2017 issue of (614) Magazine
A mentor of mine once said that the worst place to open a coffee shop was in the same spot where another had gone out of business. Sure, you could probably quantify the failure of foot traffic or demographics. But ultimately, the place is still cursed.
With Ray Ray’s there is no scorched earth — only burnt ends.
After all the market analysis that could go into finding the right balance of random and regular clientele, there are really only two kinds of barbecue — you want it, or you don’t.
“I can’t fail here. It didn’t
even cross my mind,” explained a defiant James Anderson, owner of Ray
Ray’s Hog Pit whose reclusive and recursive alter-ego opened a surprise
second location in Westerville in the same space that used to be The
Barbeque Shack. “Now if it was a new market like Cleveland or
Cincinnati, I’d be nervous. But I know Columbus, and people know me.”
Despite personally knowing Anderson and his demanding attention to detail for nearly two decades, the stakes are higher than they may seem. So much so, I found myself struggling to sleep the night before — still staring at the ceiling well past midnight amid the anxious anticipation of impossible expectations. (Jiro dreams of sushi. I dream of barbecue.)
With
his wiry white beard and unmistakable attire, he’s practically become
the Santa Claus of smoked meat, working throughout the night to bring
barbecue to good boys and girls at a massive scale with magical
precision. Like all legendary reputations, it was hard to earn and
remains challenging to maintain.
“We turned down all growth opportunities for the past five years to focus on the brand. We wanted to do it slowly, to make sure our processes were in place, that our purveyors were doing their jobs well,” Anderson said with assurance. “But when this spot became available, the whole package was too good to turn down.”
The new spot isn’t entirely obvious for an undercover
barbecue pit. Situated in the middle of a shopping plaza on the
northeast corner of Maxtown Road and Route 3, it seems like an unlikely
spot compared to the perfect food truck parking lot they’ve called home
beside Ace of Cups.
But look closer. It’s more than just a failed drive-thru espresso bar and a patch of grass at the far end of the Home Depot parking lot. That’s essentially the local hardware store — and there’s a bank, a grocery, a pharmacy, even a factory right across the road. What looks like suburbia almost perfectly mimics the mix of businesses found in any old small-town square — and Ray Ray’s is right in the middle of it.
There’s really no bad place to sell barbecue — save maybe outside a petting zoo. Though there are certainly better places, and Anderson decided this one had all the right ingredients.
“Barbecue should be served outdoors,” he noted. “I’m
lost in this little corporate world, and they’re starving for
independents up here.”Anderson is anything but corporate, but his
gut instincts are tempered by informed intuition. The original location
has been the unlikely launch pad for various culinary collaborations
that seem to be everywhere you turn. From a signature pie at Mikey’s
Late Night Slice and the spin-off success of the Hungarian Butcher, to a
Franklinton barbecue throwdown, and a one-off event last month at
Land-Grant, the best innovators are collaborators and Anderson’s orbit
has already reached well beyond Clintonville.
“There are some
culinary things I’d like to do that I can’t do with Ray Ray’s. But there
will be a time to get those things out,” he hinted coyly, and
cautiously. “I don’t want to bring that here. We’re still keeping this
street level.”
Anderson knows his brand, and anyone who thinks barbecue is just swine, Cheerwine, and a bunch of picnic tables oversimplifies the cultural complexity that comes with any expansion of a beloved business.
“We have a lot of room for growth, that’s why
we put in two smokers. We can do catering here, and now we have that
capacity. But we don’t want to spread ourselves too thin by doing things
we don’t do,” he noted with a nod to the empty stage that used to host
bands under the former owner. “We’re not a live music venue, we’re not a
bar. If you do all of those other things, your quality suffers. Simple
works. I think our customers respect that.”
Westerville patrons
may recognize some familiar faces. To ensure the new Ray Ray’s matched
more than just the menu, Anderson split his existing team in half, then
hired at both locations.
“Barbecue is an art that you’re constantly teaching someone else. So whatever they do also represents me,” he explained.
Though
training new staff at both locations sounds inherently risky, it’s
certainly not the craziest idea, and he’s heard his share over the
years.
“Franchising… I’ve been getting that offer once a week for
years. We have a grocery store that’s been hounding us to put pre-made,
wrapped Ray Ray’s sandwiches in their stores. That’s f*cking crazy,” he
said, shaking his head at the prospect of taking something hot and fresh
and making it old and cold. “I would lose all of my credibility.”
Columbus is a city built on reputations, which is why Anderson isn’t concerned about eating into his own customer base by opening a second location. Folks already come from Michigan and Kentucky to stand in line. That isn’t likely to change. Connoisseurs, farther still — like one renowned barbecue critic who recently traveled from Texas to see what all the fuss was about.
“The national critics will often give you a
heads-up, but sometimes they want to sneak in and get the real deal,” he
explained. “We recognized him and talked for a couple of hours. Then he
flew back a week later and came to the farm to see my Mangalitsa-Red
Wattle cross, and I did a hog roast just for him.”
Even with
expectations that epic, there’s no accounting for the weather. Ray Ray’s
had their share of rain opening week, but it didn’t seem to dampen
business or deter his faithful following. The extra hours of operation
also helped to smooth things out.
“Now that we’re in a building, we should follow different rules. We’re open six days here instead of four, and an hour earlier,” Anderson noted. “We almost doubled our projection for the first week. Even with the rain, we still killed it. But we have to keep that momentum. If our month two and month three sales are the same or better than our first month, then we’ll know it’s the right spot. ▩
For more on Ray Ray’s Hog Pit, current hours and specials, follow them on Facebook and Instagram, and visit rayrayshogpit.com
Originally published in the January 2017 issue of (614) Magazine
Sharing stories around a campfire is among our most enduring traditions. From the primitive survival tips of our earliest ancestors to complex cautionary tales of love and loss, language remains the common currency of the human experience. But now we have a bigger campfire, spreading light and heat to everyone within reach of a keyboard or constantly connected device we carry in our pockets. That’s where Larry Smith is in his element, helping strangers rediscover the ancient art of storytelling by distilling it down to six simple words.
The
Six-Word Memoir project started as a stopgap solution for SMITH
Magazine, an online rendezvous for writers that launched just as social
media was redefining the rules for every internet interaction. Of
course, it’s hard to foresee the future from ground level. But Smith
somehow did, even as corporations and his contemporaries in what we call
“old media” struggled to see over the obvious horizon. Never minding
the naysayers, Six-Word Memoirs tapped into something deft, yet
diminutive. From boardrooms to classrooms, suicide prevention to speed
dating, the platform defied critics by effectively elevating kitsch to
cause almost overnight.
After a decade of didactic self-disclosure, it would be easy to descend into diatribes about Marshall McLuhan, the medium is the message, and other pointy-headed punditry. Though there is merit in analyzing the mental mechanisms behind the movement, it was never intended as an indulgent, academic exercise. Nor are there the fading flames or faint flickers of a dying fire. The effort keeps evolving to reach unlikely audiences and amateur auteurs whose unspoken autobiographies offer an intimate perspective that pierces the darkness with a few soulful syllables.
Having settled in Columbus after several stints in hipper haunts, Larry Smith kicked back for coffee to reflect on ten years of Six Words — an idea that keeps reinventing itself.
“I’M SURE YOU’VE ANSWERED THIS BEFORE.”
You’re essentially a superhero of short-form storytelling. Yet some are still unfamiliar with the six-word concept. What was the inspiration? Tell me your origin story?
I love origin stories. When I’m introduced, it’s often just “This is Larry Smith of Six-Word Memoirs” and someone might say, “Oh, you’re that six-word guy?” I like superhero better. The origin story is a literary legend, which some of your readers may know. Ernest Hemingway was once challenged to write a six-word novel in a bar bet, where many literary legends begin. As the story goes, Hemingway wrote, “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”
In January of 2006, I left a traditional journalism career working mostly in print magazines, but some web — Men’s Journal, ESPN Magazine, Dave Eggar’s Might, POV, Yahoo! Internet Life, which was like the people’s WIRED. I saw the user-generated content explosion coming as kind of the tech culture guy at all of these magazines.
Telling stories is hot, in almost an amusing way. It’s always been hot in film and television. But it’s hot in advertising now, because technology finally caught up with what we’ve always wanted to do. Telling stories, recording music, creating art — our ability to share these stories through Facebook, Twitter, and Six-Word Memoirs has become more easy, and addictive.
So I did something crazy and left a career I really enjoyed and I started SMITHMAG.net on January 6, 2006 on National Smith Day, which is one of those days you get if enough people sign a petition. But it was a good media hook. I launched a user-generated content magazine where anyone could tell a story. But Six-Word Memoirs wasn’t part of it.
“YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING US?”
Online magazines were a tough sell back then, especially without some sort of parallel print product. How did your early partnership with Twitter propel Six-Word Memoirs into the popular culture?
Toward the end of the first year, people loved it — but it wasn’t a business. It wasn’t generating enough traffic. “Threw spaghetti at wall; some stuck.” is one of my favorite six-word memoirs, and that’s what I did. I remembered the Hemingway legend and thought, “What if we gave it a personal twist?”
So we Googled “six-word memoir” and nothing came up.
That was it — we called it “Six-Word Memoirs”. It was going to be a month-long contest and the best six-word story would win an iPod, which was a good prize back in 2006. Right before we launched, I called up these guys I’d met at a tech conference with a side project called Twitter. This was when you could call Twitter and Jack Dorsey would answer the phone. We’d talked about doing a project with SMITH MAG and they thought it was great. So anyone could enter a story about any part of their lives, their whole life, an epitaph, how you’re feeling today, whatever. But if you wanted to win the iPod, you had to sign up for this funny little thing called Twitter. We crowd-sourced the decision to some interns and friends and the winner was, “Barrister, barista— what’s the diff, Mom?” from a Silicon Valley engineer named Abigail Moorhouse. The response was overwhelming. We were receiving tens of thousands of six-word memoirs — which at the time all came to my email box. Obviously now we curate it and built the site around it.
“SIX WORDS AREN’T REALLY SO SIMPLE.”
Between the ease of the app and the confines of the format, there’s a surprising amount of intimacy on the site, the kind that maybe gets lost or overlooked in social media platforms without that six-word limit. How is this a fundamentally different experience?
It can get very deep, even though it’s short. I call it ADDeep.
We have power users on the site who have posted ten even twenty thousand six-word memoirs. They post eight to ten times a day almost like a Facebook status. Some are silly, but some are profound.
We have lots of six-word memoirs about the most emotional times in people’s lives — the birth of a child or a battle with cancer. If you go to the site as a major event is unfolding — like a mass shooting, a plane lands on the Hudson, or the death of someone like John Glenn — people share their thoughts and reflections. And because we aren’t as big as a Twitter or Facebook, people really have a sense that in our smaller community they are being heard.
When Bowie died? Whoa. Our users were able to become part of that narrative. The constraint fuels creativity.
“SOME COUPLES SHARE EVERYTHING. SOME DON’T.”
My
wife and I met in journalism school, which means she’s either the first
person to read something I’m writing—or the last. What’s it like having
two writers under the same roof? How did your Six-Word experience
influence your wife’s memoir?
My wife, Piper
Kerman, wrote the memoir Orange is the New Black based on her own
experience serving 13 months in federal prison for a crime she committed
a long time ago. So, we’re both in the storytelling business. She
teaches writing in two state prisons outside of Columbus, Marion and
Marysville.
She is a reluctant memoirist, and a more
quiet and introverted person than I am. I’m much more unfiltered than
she is, which isn’t a criticism. It’s just a style and approach. Many
people have a memoir inside them, but she was never like, “I want to
write a book about my life.”
Everyone has an interesting story if you poke around, but when she got out of prison, people were curious. And when she went into prison, there were really no books for women. They were all about the experiences of men. People were hungry to hear about it and she felt a deep obligation to tell not just her story, but the stories of the other women as well — who they are, where they came from, and what happens to them when they get out.
I
encouraged her to write it, and knew she was a great writer from living
with her all those years. We have a friend who used to joke long before
Piper went to prison and wrote the book that she was the better writer
in the house because she would edit things I wrote and she was so good.
But after getting her letters while she was in prison, it was
undeniable. She’s absolutely the better writer.
“IS STORYTELLING A CALLING, OR A CURSE?”
Columbus is known a test market for all sorts of products, and we’re proud of it. How did Columbus come to be the Six in the City prototype— a city of storytellers?
What I learned from Six-Word
Memoirs is that I went from journalist, which I liked a lot, to someone
who builds community through storytelling, which I love.
People sometimes ask if I ever get bored with Six Words. But it’s really just a tool to get people to open up about themselves. If I’m working with a Mosaic class, or Columbus School for Girls, or Independents’ Day with pieces of paper and a clothesline barking for Sixes, and that’s never boring.
Giving people agency over their lives, to be the protagonist in their own stories is empowering. I once had a teenage girl get up on stage at the Harmony Project and say, “Yes, I’m pregnant, but I’m graduating.” And they clapped. She was owning her story.
Six in the City tells the story of an entire
community. I had initial meetings in New York, talked to folks with the
city, and I’d get a call back three months later.
I
didn’t intend to launch Six in the City in Columbus. But when I got here
and looked around, and started to understand the community vibe,
everyone I talked to in Columbus said yes.
Do you want to have a meeting? “Yes.” Do you want to move forward? “Yes.” Columbus is a “Yes” city. If you have an idea, and you’re willing to work hard, Columbus will help you make it happen — the city, the people, the community, everyone.
We came here two times before we decided to move here. There was an event at the Jewish Community Center, and we went out to dinner afterwards. We didn’t have any family ties or friends here. We came back one more time and my wife and I decided right then, “Let’s do this. Let’s get a house”. I was tired of that Brooklyn apartment anyway. It wasn’t a difficult decision. Now, I’m an ambassador for Columbus. ▩
Originally published in the December 2016 issue of (614) Magazine
In case you missed it, Columbus just became home to the world’s most subversive sandwich.
If Morgan Spurlock hangs up his handlebar mustache tomorrow, he’ll forever be famous as the guy whose one-month stunt eating nothing but McDonald’s fare changed the way Americans think about fast food — or, maybe not. By now, the gag is out of the bag. But the last laugh may still be on us. Holy Chicken, his latest venture, launched its first location as a four-day pop-up amid apparently oblivious fanfare. Unlike rival restaurants, it advertised antibiotic-free, hormone-free, cage-free fowl with unprecedented honesty.
“We’re going to bring total transparency to a lying industry,” said Spurlock, between a call-and-response chorus of patrons packed before his poultry pulpit. “HOLY CHICKEN,” he chanted—and his faithful flock followed.
If Andy Kaufman had opened a fast food franchise, it would be difficult to distinguish it from Holy Chicken. As far as the simple menu went, it seems like a genuine attempt to offer a better bird for a premium price. But, you’re also being served some super-sized sarcasm on an artisan bun, with a side of social satire.
The signs were everywhere.
No, really — the signs were all over the joint.
From on-the-nose aphorisms about the persuasive psychology of “healthy and relaxed” green and “enthusiastic and energetic” orange to a snarky “SEE YOU SOON” on the exit with the disclaimer, “Most doctors and nutritionists would recommend that you eat Holy Chicken only once or twice a month to maintain a balanced diet. But that probably won’t stop you, will it?”
“Americans make bad choices all the time,” said the straight-faced Spurlock, noting the ominous warnings in friendly fonts occupying the walls. Spurlock’s old-fashioned ribbon-cutting ceremony included representatives from Experience Columbus and the Chamber of Commerce, as well as a proclamation from the State of Ohio — presented against a backdrop of folksy, farm-to-table, illustrated insights titled “Know Your Chicken,” “Know Your Farmer,” and “Know Your Vertically Integrated Corporate Supply Chain.”
I have to admit, the sandwich was pretty tasty — despite the dire and discouraging décor. I went for the “Grilled Crispy Chicken Sandwich” topped with maple mustard, pickles, and homemade slaw. The side of “Crunchy Greens” was actually batter-dipped green beans. Both were fried.
“We don’t use the F-word,” Spurlock quietly confessed. “People like ‘crispy’ and ‘crunchy’ food.”
That’s not much consolation if you worry about what you eat. Americans rarely read the fine print, and apparently they aren’t fans of larger-than-life print either. The chicken sandwich, their only entrée, weighed in at 860 calories. Add those fried green beans at 190 calories, and your total matched that of a Big Mac and large fries from Spurlock’s former nemesis.
If that realization wasn’t enough to offset your appetite, the annotated, meticulously staged mural of the same sandwich should have. Photoshop trickery is always a given — but using KY in the coleslaw to create a more marketable image could leave you feeling queasy.
The genius: Spurlock wasn’t hiding any of this, making the distinction between sincerity and chicanery difficult to tell, hard to sell, and harder to swallow. Though he described the use of real wood surfaces to “give you thoughts of nature, trees, cute little farms with barns, and other healthy stuff” — a discrete lean over the counter into the kitchen revealed an employee literally using a brush and stencil to paint charcoal stripes on the grilled chicken.
Holy Chicken claimed its food was “too good to be true.” Whether the hundreds who lined up were willingly duped, blissfully ignorant, or just playing along was an even-money bet. The hype was real, even if some weren’t sure the restaurant was. Perhaps that was the point, along with gathering a lot of footage for some future film or television endeavor. Americans care less about antibiotics, hormones, and cages than they do feeling good about themselves.
They want guilt-free fast food — disclosures be damned.
But in the days that followed, social media cried foul and the local press was unimpressed. Spurlock’s epic editorial on deceptive practices had some screaming the sky was falling without considering the moral of the story.
Columbus was invited to be in on the joke, not the butt of it. As America’s test market, we’ve seen our share of half-baked ideas. This was not one of them. There was no subterfuge. Holy Chicken sold sandwiches, not snake oil. Better yet, they sold them at a price we should expect to pay for better chicken and better wages. That chicken was all that was advertised—free from the ambiguous labels we presume are bad, but have lots of legal leeway. And those employees were paid $15 an hour, far better than Spurlock himself made during his last gig in Columbus.
The premiere episode of his groundbreaking television series, 30 Days, followed the filmmaker through the struggles of minimum wage employment. It’s no coincidence he returned here to unveil his latest project, even if some were swept up in the same cognitive dissonance behind the foods we choose everyday. Of all of the premium modifiers used to describe his chicken, “healthy” was never one of them. Presuming the rest somehow made it so was exactly the linguistic leap the fast food industry expects us to make, and any backlash instead of hilarity that ensues proved it.
Did Holy Chicken disclose in unapologetic fashion exactly what they were serving? Were you initially elated that a healthier restaurant was finally meeting customer demands, only to have your hopes dashed again? Were the sandwiches they served likely no better than those sold by nearly every fellow fast food chain? Yes? Then shut the cluck up.
Spurlock didn’t reduce cultural commentary to a crappy carnival ride. He elevated it to an innovative, interactive experience. Holy Chicken wasn’t a hoax — it was a catered performance art exhibition. Luckily, most folks were all too honored to eat it up. ▩
Super Size Me 2: Holy Chicken! is now available to stream on YouTube, Amazon Prime, and iTunes.
