History, family, colorful characters inspire Texas tunesmith
Eric Hanke
on Merel Bregante-produced "Factory Man"
Eric Hanke is the kind of guy who naturally stands out in a crowd. For one thing, he’s usually the tallest one in it, unless it’s a gathering of hoops players. But he also stands out among his singer-songwriters peers in Austin and elsewhere — not only because of his resolute refusal to follow Texas or Nashville trends, but for his way with a lyric, his ability to move easily among multiple musical styles, the respect he’s earned from players he counts as influences and mentors.
With his second release, "Factory Man," Hanke proves the praise he drew for his maiden outing, 2006’s “Autumn Blues” — including comparisons to Texas’ finest songsmiths and a top 10 of the year pronunciation by the Austin American-Statesman’s Michael Corcoran, the dean of Austin music critics — was well justified.
Both were produced by Hanke’s friend and bandmate, Merel Bregante, who gained fame drumming for the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band and Loggins & Messina. The players include Bregante’s wife, singer Sarah Pierce; guitarist Kenny Grimes; keyboardist Riley Osbourn; steel player Cindy Cashdollar … names that resonate far beyond Austin’s borders. But for Hanke, it’s not about pedigree, it’s about honesty. Soul. Feeling. It’s about appreciating Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson and Townes Van Zandt but loving classic rock, too, and knowing that songs about beer and trucks might sell records, but that doesn’t mean they’re good. Even if they are by fellow Texans.
“Factory Man,” on Hanke’s own Ten Foot Texan Records label, is filled with songs borne of experience, populated by real people. Hanke adheres to the “write what you know” school; for him, BS just won’t fly. The best grooves come from what you know, too, and this album is a great blend of a little bit ’o soul, some blues, some country, rock, folk … etc. Americana. It’s more electric than “Autumn Blues,” but it’s not ragged, in-your-face rawk. It’s cool, yet warm — and that’s not a contradiction. With Hanke’s high tenor (which sounds not unlike that of his neighbor, Slaid Cleaves) supported by just-right harmonies and instrumentation throughout, it’s a natural progression for an artist who’s not afraid of taking his time to get it right.
He spent half of the time between albums living on South Padre Island, learning to play electric guitar, gigging in bars and hanging out on the beach. Hurricane Ike motivated him to head back to Austin with his trusty dog, Waylon, and record again.
Born in Michigan and raised in Dallas, Hanke likes to say he attended the Merel Bregante school of sensitivity and artist development. Actually, he’s got a bachelor’s degree in German and international studies, but even PhDs know most of the important stuff isn’t learned in classrooms. Musicians tend to start their lessons with somebody else’s record collection; Hanke had his dad’s. But his very first album was a Willie Nelson disc that accompanied the record player his grandparents gave him when he was 3.
He didn’t get serious about his own playing till his late teens, but when the bug took hold, it bit hard. He started delving more deeply into the work of artists he admired, and learning the craft of writing, though the skill clearly comes naturally to him. Hanke etches vivid details into each story he tells on “Factory Man,” starting with the slightly countryish, mandolin-laden title song.
“It’s a workingman’s tune,” Hanke says. “On the back of the album, there’s a picture of my grandfather when he was 17 years old in Germany, when he got his apprenticeship as a tool-and-die maker.” His grandfather emigrated to the states and, like so many of his generation, spent almost his entire adult life working at one plant.
“That song is about when that place, after so many years, was closing down and outsourcing all of the jobs to China and Brazil,” Hanke explains. “At the time, I wrote it about that once place in particular [well before Detroit’s meltdown], but it became about unemployment in general and the hard economic times people are going through.”
Turning a singular subject into one with a universal connection is another measure of a true songwriter. But there’s something else that separates Hanke from the pack: his Midwestern-born work ethic.
“You have to treat being a musician like a job,” he says. “If you’re not doing shit, it won’t get done. If you wanna drop acid and start a drum circle in South Austin, go do it. But it’s not going to get you anywhere.”
That’s why Hanke recently went to Nashville to pair up with other writers in the Carnival Music Publishing stable. (Carnival, it should be noted, is owned by Frank Liddell, Miranda Lambert’s producer and Lee Ann Womack’s husband.) He’s not sure whether more sessions will follow, but in the meantime, he’s got two collaborations on this album: one with Pierce (“Burn It Down,” inspired, he says, by the small-mindedness in the Texas town his girlfriend’s from) and one with George Ensle.
“He’s one of the top troubadours in Texas, in my opinion, though not many people know about him,” Hanke says. “He came out of the Houston scene in the ’70s with Guy Clark, Townes and those guys.” The song, “Hope Your Dreams Come True,” has a gentle, early soul/R&B tone.
“It’s a nostalgic song that has to do with some of my favorite things: old cars, baseball,” Hanke adds. “It’s sort of a blessing to the people who listen to it.”
Next to the lyrics in the album sleeve, there’s a photo of his dad as a Little Leaguer. The paternal images — not to mention one of a very young Hanke with his first guitar — represent links to his past and his strong family ties; he also has a passion for history.
Maybe that’s why, after moving to South Padre, he spent hours listening to his 85-year-old neighbor, Mr. Washington, spin stories and Muddy Waters tunes while sipping E&J brandy. Old Mr. Washington’s admonition — “There’s just two evils in this world: women and money” (booze, apparently, wasn’t on his list) — became the inspiration for “Mr. Slim’s Blues.”
Turning inspiration into songs … that’s not a bad job at all — especially because no one can tell him to give it up. But anyone who listens to “Factory Man” wouldn’t think of trying.
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