the subdudes

Post-impressionist painter Paul Gauguin once said, “In art, all who have done something other than their predecessors have merited the epithet of revolutionary; and it is they alone who are masters.” But it was Thomas Edison who really hit the heart of creativity. When asked by a Harper’s journalist in 1934 what laboratory rules Edison wanted him to observe, Edison bristled, “Hell! There ain’t no rules around here! We’re trying to accomplish somep’n!”

The subdudes surely qualify for mastery under Gauguin’s definition. They took their collective musical heritage of raucous Louisiana roots rock, shook it up in a gris-gris bag of R&B, zydeco, country, blues and jazz, and in a mystical birth gave us back a swampy, soulful, joyful, danceable music—a soul-stirring sound nobody had ever heard. But it’s Edison’s ruleless creative ethic that really captures the essence of the subdudes. A tambourine as the centerpiece of the rhythm section? Three-part harmonies more pulpit than party calls? A sweet, sparse accordion more pillow than punching bag? And then, breaking The Big Rule for a rock band, they turned down the volume.

Ten years and five albums later, though, the band member “ran out of steam,” as they said back then, and the subdudes were no more. Fans were heartbroken and dismayed. Now, after an eight-year absence, a renewed, reformed subdudes have released a new record, Miracle Mule.

The core of the band, Tommy Malone, John Magnie and Steve Amedée, and its signature sound—exquisite vocal interplay, Malone’s inimitable slide guitar, Magnie’s sweet, subtle accordion and Amedée’s brushed and thumped tambourine—are fully in place. But time, wisdom and some notable changes to the lineup have given fans their favorite band back. And then some.

And Bonnie Raitt is happy about their return, too. “So glad they’re back together,” she says, “as they were among the most appreciated of bands, by their fans as well as other musicians. They are as funky as they are original, all amazingly talented and soulful guys. We’ve missed them!”

The story of the group’s birth begins in 1987, when John Magnie took his rather rowdy Continental Drifters to Tipitina’s in the Big Easy for a gig on “piano night,” when the music was supposed to be soft.

“We decided we were going to just bring a minimal amount of equipment and were going to play in this subdued kind of way,” says Magnie. “That word came up, and we said, ‘Okay, we’ll be the subdudes.’”

Magnie took only his accordion; Tommy Malone and Johnny Ray Allen brought acoustic guitars. Magnie invited Steve Amedée, a drummer friend he knew was a primo harmony singer, and Amedée carried just a tambourine for percussion. They recorded the show off the board and took the tape back to Amedée’s house after the gig for a listen.

Years before “unplugged” became popular on MTV, the subdudes were extolling the virtues of acoustic music. It wasn’t only the lack of electricity and volume; it was something else entirely. “It was the vibe,” says Malone. “The sound, the ability to hear the vocal parts. The mood, the rhythm. Everything. It was just very different than anything we’d ever heard.”

They were onto something and knew it was to be their path; they also knew if they stayed in town, they risked being another unknown New Orleans band. They needed a fresh start.

So, they bought a sky-blue LTD for $200 and headed for Denver, Colo., Magnie’s hometown. Settling in nearby Ft. Collins, the foursome soon went to a recording studio in Boulder to cut some demos. The studio owner—an entertainment lawyer and former record company exec—heard the music and knew they had something. He shopped them in Los Angeles and by August—less than a year after the group’s move—they had a deal with Atlantic Records. The subdudes were happenin’, and les bons temps ont roulès, bébé.

In 1989, they released their first album, the subdudes, to critical acclaim. From the record’s opening bars—beginning with warm guitar and that delightful tambourine punch—to Magnie’s melodic accordion colors and Malone’s plaintive, soulful vocals that cry out sad and hopeful, “Is there any cure for being alone?” the subdudes put out the call.

Oh yes, there was a cure, came the answer, and it was subdudes soul.

Their star rose quickly, especially with fellow musicians, and they had the likes of Raitt, Huey Lewis, Melissa Etheridge and Steve Winwood singing their praises. Bruce Hornsby, Magnie recalls, once walked up and down the streets of Hollywood shouting, “subdudes rule!” But this unique band didn’t fit neatly into the era’s radio. The fledgling Triple-A format that should’ve been their home suffered from “little brother” syndrome and wanted to be contemporary rock. The subdudes were too Southern, maybe—too soulful, too funky, too … something.

Lack of airplay meant sales suffered, and after 1991’s Lucky—another critical success and fan favorite that failed to bring the numbers required by a major label—Atlantic blinked. Still, the label set them up with famed producer Glyn Johns to record a third album in London. But when the subdudes came home with a master, “nobody really liked the record,” says Malone, and Atlantic dropped them.

But while minimal airplay had stifled sales, the subdudes’ powerful live shows—where nobody in the audience was able to stand still—and those two radio-ignored records people discovered mostly via word-of-mouth, the subdudes had collected rabid fans from coast-to-coast.

They found a new deal with High Street, and the label not only released a reworked version of Annunciation in 1994, but also re-released those first two albums as well. The band was moving forward.

Even so, ego issues, creative control and financial squabbling began within the band. But the subdudes understood what they had, so they hung together, like a couple who stays married for the kids.

Tim Cook, the subdudes’ new percussionist, occasional bassist and low-harmony singer, had been among the first mesmerized by the subdudes when they showed up in Colorado in 1987. Taking on the role of road manager during the Annunciation tour, he moved the band toward bigger, better paying gigs. But the internal acrimony finally began to show, and the uneven Primitive Streak was released in 1996 to mixed reviews. Finally, the strife became unbearable, and disillusion turned to dissolution. They did a final tour during which they recorded 1997’s bittersweet Live at Last, with Cook as the reluctant-but-loving producer.

Afterward, Malone formed Tiny Town with Allen and they signed with the upstart, would-be-major Pioneer Records. But the label folded just three months after the band’s album was released. Magnie, Amedée and Cook formed the Three Twins in Colorado. Around this time, Malone quit Tiny Town and created a trio himself, the Tommy Malone Band, and did a solo record distributed out of Louisiana. That, he says, was, “a lonely process.”

When Malone needed a rhythm section, he called up his old friend Jimmy Messa, a world-class bass player who was just finishing up a tour himself. Messa and drummer Sammy Neal joined Malone on the road.

In 2001, with a gig scheduled at the Soiled Dove in Denver, Malone invited Magnie to come sit in, and when he did, all were reminded of the old subdudes’ magic. “We had a good house that night,” recalls Messa. “Everybody was loving it. But then when Tommy said, ‘We’re gonna have a friend come up and sit in with us,’ and John came up on stage, the crowd went crazy, and I could see people pulling out their cell phones, calling their friends. Almost immediately, the place was packed.”

It’d been five years, but the fans had remembered. So with renewed enthusiasm the two trios merged as “the dudes.”

Acknowledging that the tambourine was one of the signature sounds of the subdudes, and that the name still held sway with fans and concert bookers, the dudes made the painful decision to let the talented Neal go, and to buy out Allen’s share of the name. To fill out the sound, they added a kick drum for Amedée, and a floor tom for Cook. The five gathered at Malone’s house in Mississippi and Cook’s house in Colorado for writing sessions and reverie in between gigs, and the good times, they were really rolling now. With interest from four significant indie labels, the subdudes, armed with more than an album’s worth of material, signed with Milwaukee-based Back Porch records, a subsidiary of EMI’s Narada. Anxious to get going, they set up camp at Warren Dewey’s (Little Feat; Earth, Wind & Fire) studio in Santa Monica, Calif., and recorded Miracle Mule live to analog—with very few overdubs—in two weeks.

Miracle Mule is more than a dazzling, delicious return to everything beloved about the subdudes; it’s an aural testament to growth of talent, to deepening musicianship and chemistry. A fan at a recent show in Asheville may have said it best: “I would never have believed they could get better, because I thought they were perfect back then. But they are better. They sing better, they play better. The new songs knock me out.”

And if AAA radio missed out on the subdudes the first time around, it isn’t making the same mistake again. “Morning Glory,” Miracle Mule’s opening cut and debut single, became the most added song to the format’s playlist during the last week of March.

The song itself is the perfect choice to announce the band’s return. It’s quintessentially subdudes: a monster groove; Malone’s heart-pounding tenor soaring; Messa’s creamy, melodic bass; Magnie’s poetic voice and fingers; accordion and tambourine; Cook’s low pipes enriching the organic harmonies. The lyrics even evoke the band’s attitude now—a positive, if somewhat wary, take on life, love and spiritual connection.

“I’m at a much better place in my life,” says Malone, and it’s obvious he speaks for all. “Clearer, more awake, really dedicated to being a better musician. And we have, really, all the tools we need with this combination, to go into more interesting territory. Even subtle things, within us all; it’s more interesting to me. I think we’re just scratching the surface, really. There’s more to come.”