By DAN OKO
Talk to people who know acclaimed rhythm and blues artist Bonnie Raitt and each one will tell you:
She's the real deal.
The daughter of the renowned Broadway performer John Raitt, she has earned her rep as a consummate performer. Coming from a Quaker background and having discovering her social identity during the tumultuous '60s -- she dropped out of college in 1969 -- Raitt's commitment to the ideals of social, economic and environmental justice are no mere posture.
That was evident when Raitt talked to the Independent this week about her upcoming concerts to benefit four environmental groups working to protect Montana waterways from a handful of potentially disastrous mining projects. The slight and sultry rasp that has marked the 48-year-old redhead's songs was present in her conversational tones, as was the mixture of sadness, anger and determination that comes so clearly through her vast catalogue of recordings.
Her involvement in political issues, which she acknowledges is not reflected in her songwriting, goes back to the anti-nuclear movement of the early 1970s.
She has also been involved in women's issues, working for reproductive rights, and in more recent years (like the Indigo Girls who visited Missoula on their Honor the Earth tour), Raitt has been drumming up support for Native Americans who would rather not see their reservations turned into dumping grounds for nuclear waste.
By her own reckoning, Raitt says, the complexion of her music is not so different from that of her activism -- which goes a long way in explaining why the discussion we have is almost poetic in its depth and scope.
"To me," she says, "the same thing that makes you care about the environment, or find someplace beautiful, is the thing that would make you want to be an artist.
"Traditionally artists have been the conscience of our society. They have reflected our concerns. That's the history of folk music, a history I come from, and the love, pain, anger and feelings of loss are all there whether I'm upset about the rape of the environment or about the way some man treats me."
Raitt says that she was first drawn to plight of Montana's rivers and streams while traveling on a plane back from a swing through Europe with her father.
She had been through Montana before -- the last time, she says, was 1988 -- and when she read about the proposed mine for the Blackfoot River in a magazine, the singer -- who frequently uses her notoriety while on tour to focus light on various issues -- was determined to get involved.
"It's not like I have all the answers," she says. "But with A River Runs Through It, which everybody knows about now, it was obvious that this was a special place in need of some help.
"It's not like 20 years down the road there's going to be mining jobs there, and there won't be any tourism in the area either."
So Raitt turned to Tom Campbell, a veteran promoter who has run the California-based, environmental the Guacamole Fund for nearly three decades, and within a few months Campbell had a bead on a venue -- the Adams Field House at the University of Montana and the Helena Civic Center. Before the end of October, with the help of UM Productions, the promoter had nailed down Sunday, Dec. 14, and Friday, Dec. 12, as respective concert dates, and had picked out a handful of worthy beneficiaries.
(Campbell, who once raised money for Earth First! founder Dave Foreman's legal defense fund, will not talk to the press about his work. But Raitt insists that he was instrumental in this effort and has been in many others.)
For her part, Raitt continues, it's not so much a matter of shutting down the mines as moving the decision-making process out into the open. Raitt, who has also been involved in the Headwaters Forest campaign to save ancient redwood forests in Northern California -- where she called from while taking a break from recording -- is well aware that many decisions being made by the government concerning the environment lack full citizen involvement and public disclosure.
By lending her name and fame to the cause, she says, she hopes to enliven the debate if nothing else. "These organizations really have no voice," she says. "And the people who are trying to get these deals done, they're making them in the back rooms.
"But if we're going to have a democracy, then we need to have informed consent."
At a campfire not long ago, a Missoula-based activist related a story about Bonnie Raitt.
The two had been arrested with a bunch of other people during a protest in Northern California's redwood forest in 1996. This fellow, who had plenty of experience dealing with celebrities and who had found them cloying and self-centered, harbored no such feelings towards Raitt.
I've been around these Hollywood types, he said, and she's not like them. It was one of those stories that sticks out, in part, because the teller was clearly showing off. But at the same time, listening to Raitt's own characterization of the incident, it's clear that she is different.
"They've been holding demonstrations there for the last three years," she says of the redwood campaign, explaining that the biggest day of action always comes just about the time when the Marbled murrelet -- the endangered bird that prompted the logging moratorium in the redwoods -- decision comes up for review.
"Something like 900 people were arrested last year," she says. "I was acting on my conscience."
To listen to Raitt, acting on one's conscience should be the most natural thing in the world. Most of us know it's not, but either the Quaker background or the cushion of fame, or perhaps a little of both, has given her a lot of confidence.
And so it should be, given her long history of activism.
Raitt explains that she grew up in under the constant specter of "nuclear annihilation," and that by the time she had decided to become a musician -- she first picked up a guitar when she was 12 -- Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger and Joan Baez were leading marches and playing peace demonstrations across the country.
Those folkies, along with Woody Guthrie, she says, were her heroes, and while some may not consider her to be a folk artist, Raitt maintains that the blues she learned to play, and the slide-guitar style that she excels at, are very much a part of the American folk music tradition.
"I come out of that background, and part of what I do has always been folk music," she says. "Blues is folk music, and some might say I play pop, but ever since Michael Jackson took that over and began calling himself the King of Pop, well, I try to stay as far away from that as possible."
Raitt says she's finished a new album, one which could easily set this question to rest from the sounds of it.
It's the second follow up in a decade (not including a greatest hits collection) to her Grammy Award-winning Nick of Time. That late-coming, breakthrough album was produced by the legendary Don Was, and features efforts with Raitt's longtime friends David Crosby and Graham Nash, as well as jazz piano great Herbie Hancock.
And it put Raitt on the map in a serious way. Fundamental is the name of the new record, which Raitt expects to be released sometime in March or April 1998. She says it's "a left turn" which reflects a "grittier, bluesier" sound and involves a new set of musicians.
Raitt explains that the title comes from a song called "The Fundamental Things" and reflects her efforts to trim away the fat. The results clearly please her, and she laughs a little as she explains that, well, "it's less pop than usual."
When Fundamental does finally hit the stands, Raitt says, she will probably return to Montana with a full band. But the concert this weekend, she says, will feature only acoustic sets -- which means in her words "no rockers" as well as increased revenue for the groups benefiting from the shows: the Clark Fork-Pend Orielle Coalition, the Montana Environmental Information Center, Island Mountain Protectors and the Rock Creek Alliance.
There are those in Montana who have written to this paper and others, complaining about this out-of-state artist bringing to bear her elitist influence on a matter they say doesn't concern her. In one case, she was labeled a country singer who had turned her back on her natural fan base -- the people who the mines would put to work.
When she hears this, Bonnie Raitt pauses for a moment.
She's surprised, she says, first of all to be called a country singer; she maintains she's not. Then she addresses the meat of the matter, which she sees as an issue of elitism, calling into question her role as a "global citizen."
"Look at who owns the companies who own the mines," she says. "What's more elitist that an international conglomerate, than these Canadian and Colorado-based mining companies who want to come in and rape the land for some short term gains?"
With her experience in redwoods and the anti-nuke movement as an education, Raitt says she now sees environmental racism -- the documented, systematic locating of hazardous sites near poor communities -- as a vital issue and possibly the next battle.
"We're dealing with the lowest rungs of society, often people of color, and these companies are going to end up raping the environment and taking jobs away in the long run."
Despite the fact that Raitt's conflating the issues, she has her eye on an argument which moves one step beyond the old jobs-vs-environment debate. Raitt, who talks at length about conserving what's left, is well aware that the jobs that can be sustained are those which do not deplete resources such as wilderness or clean water.
And these are the resources which opponents of the mines view as most threatened.
"All of us could use more help," says Raitt finally. "After all, how much development does anybody need? That's the main question that we should be trying to answer, and that's really about what communities want and what they need. But there needs to be a conversation about it, even an argument.
"That's not all bad, I just don't see it happening, and it needs to happen."
By ZACH DUNDAS
Jimmie Dale Gilmore, who joins Bonnie Raitt and Keb' Mo' in Missoula and Helena for benefit concerts this week, makes you think, hey, maybe there is a God, capital "G" and everything. Here he is, in his early 50s, veteran of three decades kicking around the Texas music scene -- with time off living in the Denver ashram of a teenage guru -- and he's still picking up steam.
Even so, after a recent string of beautiful records and rafts of newfound critical acclaim, Gilmore -- sitting on his porch in Texas, hooked to a reporter in Montana by phone -- comes off as a modest man who considers his blossoming place in life carefully.
'I've been around long enough to see the cycles come and go several times," he says. "It seems like there's always a bedrock of people interested in what I'd guess you'd call roots music.
"In fact, any time even die-hard pop fans get a chance to hear the stuff that that kind of music sprang from, I think they almost always like it. A lot of times when kids get to be college-aged, they become interested in the backdrop, the background to the music they've been hearing on the radio all their lives.
"For my own part, I can definitely say that I've seen a lot of younger kids at my shows in the last few years, and I honestly think that the same thing happened to me at that age. I suddenly discovered all this stuff in the background, the blues and so much more."
A fortuitous early '90s hook-up with Mudhoney broke open a young, new fan base for Gilmore, predicting the much-touted "alternative country" outbreak. But for years, his high-and-lonesome voice was a buried treasure known to just a few roots music fanatics.
Lately Gilmore has been shifting more units on top of wrenching more hearts. His latest release, this year's Braver Newer World is a fleshier, louder album than most of his other works.
It's good to know that, at least sometimes, hard work and sterling talent win out and leave their holders riding high. For even before the grange experiment with Mark Arm's 'Honey boys, Gilmore has had the hard-won respect of other musicians -- case in point, Bonnie Raitt -- which has landed him on not a few big tickets.
Speaking over what sounds like a serious set of wind chimes in the background, Gilmore describes growing up in pounded-flat West Texas, a territory of frothing musical riches. With a guitar-picking dad and the pop-hit comets of Buddy Holly and Roy Orbison leading the way, Gilmore says playing music wasn't so much a rebellion as fulfillment of some strange genetic pattern.
"I've been around music since I can remember. You could say it was my first love," he says. "And for some unknown reason, the area I was from was a breeding ground just so many good people, and not just country or folk.
"All the same things that played into their development played into mine.
"But it's interesting, because we were hearing pretty much all the same things on the radio that the rest of the country was, but something in our temperament, I guess, made a lot of people from there into lifelong music fanatics."
No one could accuse Gilmore of failing to do justice to either his heritage or the forlorn country of his upbringing. His lyrics explore dark margins with economy and grace. His voice strains against the border between sadness and redemption. Professing a love for both old-time blues and the weepier stuff by the Rolling Stones, Gilmore says he understands how sad songs can somehow lead the way out of emotional darkness.
"There's a paradox in music that the saddest songs can sometimes be the happiest things," he says. "When someone shares their heart truthfully in a song, people who hear it go, 'Yes, yes, I've felt like that.' So somehow that sadness is relieved."
That mysterious power, Gilmore says, keeps him going back to the well, and has sustained him since the years when his original band, the Flatlanders, got heckled out of Nashville, when not very many people cared what he sang.
Beyond the music itself, Gilmore's interests have wandered far and wide. Now, when it's all paying off, he sees a method emerging out of his past.
"I think keeping a diverse set of interests, more than anything, allowed music to stay exciting for me," he says. "It was never my exclusive diet. I've seen that happen with people, watched them become very jaded, but for me -- well, I was in my late 40s before I signed my first major-label deal.
"My career is still on the upswing in my early 50s, so I have the double advantage of being perceived as a newcomer when really I'm sort of a seasoned veteran.
"It's not really how I planned it, but now I wouldn't trade it for anything."