Alias is a funny specimen. Proud native of Silver Lake, California and equally at ease singing an Elvis tune at Ronnie Mack’s, a Stones karaoke in Little Tokyo, or a Lithuanian folksong in Vilnus. He can write, and man, he’s got an ear.
Our paths first crossed in Berkeley. He was new in town, and one day I found him stuck to my Jewfro like one of Harlow’s monkeys. Fortunately for both of us, we found plenty to eat.
It goes without saying he’s clocked his time in Mr. Dylan’s world. And Mr. Young, Mr. Richards (yes, both), Mr. Hurt and…and what can you say? He’s been doing this for several lifetimes, the list is too long. If you’ve got taste, well so does he—you’ll like his style. He’s a man who knows from too much of nothing, and what it means to find a lightbulb in a busted down ’83 Econoline RV. And a few years ago he came closer to the burying ground than most of us care to get—“close enough to smell the white horses,” as my grandpa used to say. But he stayed true to his pedigree—I came in thinking to deliver the last rites, but he was already singing “Halleluja, I’m ready.” (And just a word of caution—he’s got a funny sense of humor; I wouldn’t spend all so much time with my back to him…he moves fast for a big man).
You can’t ask for a finer soundtrack to your day. Check him out. It’s good medicine—I oughta know.
—Theodore Goode, MD