Ain’t that America Henry Horenstein’s Honky Tonk visions BY JIM MACNIE

"You Will Be Responsible For Any Cue Sticks That Are Broken," reads one sign. "Band Plays For Tips Only — Thank You Very Much," declares another. And among the artists on the "Coming Attractions" placard at Boston’s Hillbilly Ranch club are the Bayou Boys, Edna Jean, and Teenie Chenault. When you’re hanging around a barroom, you have to watch the signs — they can help you figure things out.

It’s also a good idea to keep your eyes on your fellow patrons, and a good chunk of Henry Horenstein’s Honky Tonk: Portraits of Country Music 1972-1981 (Chronicle Books) does just that. From Fred’s Lounge in Mamou, Louisiana to Tootsies Orchard Lounge in Nashville, the famed photographer partakes in the kind of people-watching that explains the dynamics of a larger milieu. His black-and-white pictures of the blue-collar population that supported bluegrass and C&W during the ’70s are evocative, illustrating Friday nights and Saturday afternoons spent swooning to fiddles, bouncing to banjos, and absorbing as much of the high lonesome sound as you can stand.

There’s the ad hoc band at Tootsies, with the adamant male guitarist and the heavy-set female singer sharing a serious emotional moment. There’s the couple in the side booth, wearing heavy jackets while enjoying beers and smokes. And there’s the dude blowing harmonica at the now-defunct Merchant’s Café, another beloved Nashville dive. Each shot is vivid enough to make you think you’re there with ’em, soaking up the twang.

The same goes for the portraits of the country stars that comprise half the book. Some are caught picking, like the Blue Sky Boys were on the tiny stage at Pennsylvania’s Gettysburg Bluegrass Festival. Some are just hanging out, like the revered country comedian Stringbean was at the Grand Ole Opry. Whatever the composition, Horenstein has a way of bringing a gorgeous candor to his subjects. The pictures, taken when the 56-year-old Rhode Island School of Design teacher was just starting what has turned out to be a highly respected career, are marvelously intimate. Familiarity is everywhere on these pages. Ultimately, Horenstein’s subjects — both artists and fans alike — are part of a fellowship. It’s not hard to imagine the skinny dad pushing his kid on a swing at a New Hampshire bluegrass ranch to be part of the crowd waiting for Jeannie C. Riley to come out of her bus in Westport, Massachusetts. Music binds these people.

Sharing is what communities do, of course. That’s how their dynamic is energized and sustained. Horenstein’s images get to the heart of the relationship by giving a visual voice to both sides. There are more than 100 photographs in Honky Tonk and, as the settings change and new faces arise, the connection is further revealed. Taken just as the façade of old-time country was fading, there’s a bittersweet tone to some of the shots. Whether fans of today’s country music are just as cozy with their heroes remains to be seen.

After publishing more than 30 books, ranging in subject from barrio baseball to sea creatures to a seminal text on the mechanics of black-and-white photography, Horenstein says Honky Tonk contains some of his favorite images. He spoke with the Phoenix about what these pictures meant to him then, and what they mean to him now.

Q: One of the shots in the book is from the Merchants Café. You were just in Nashville. Did you stick your head into any of those old places?

A: I did — Tootsies. I spent a lot of time in Tootsies when I was making these pictures. These days, it kind of looks the same, but it definitely feels different. It’s a branded tourist attraction rather than a bar that a woman runs. After she died, no particular owner stepped in to fill in her duties as a host/owner.

Q: Is it a victory that the place simply exists? So much of the music’s history isn’t even there anymore.

A: They’ve kept some of these places; they’re aware of the value. And I think places like that are actually making money now, because the tourist trade is so vibrant compared to the way it used to be. When I was making these photographs, hardly anyone was in downtown Nashville. It was a little on the edge, a little dangerous. Strip clubs, massage parlors, that sort of thing. Now it’s gussied up. There are no Gaps or Banana Republics yet, but it looks like it’s viable. One great thing is that Hatch Show Print, which makes wonderful posters, is still there, an old funky place that maintains its initial character. They’re doing the invitation for my New York gallery show.

Q: Is it nostalgia for those old days that will drive a buyer to pick up your book?

A: It is interesting the way the pictures have changed over the years. I took them because I was a photographer. They interested me [image-wise]. But I also love the music and I’m a history student. I saw it as a disappearing culture that I wanted to record with a camera. A lot of this stuff is gone. It’s a point that Eddie Stubbs makes in the book’s forward, and he’s bittersweet about it. That’s why I got into it. But even if you’re not a music fan, when you look at the pictures you can see part of who we were. And we’re no longer that thing.

Q: What data told you this was a dying culture?

A: The photographers I was interested in made a specialty of this kind of thing. There was a tradition of people that brought me to the art — Robert Frank, Danny Lyons. They took on the task of documenting . . . I won’t say dying cultures, I’ll say subcultures. And that’s the way I looked at it. I was very familiar with the music, so I’d go the bars, music parks, and so forth, and I’d become aware that the crowd was older, poor, dying off literally. It was 60-year-olds and their grandchildren and nothing in between. The middle-agers who were interested in music weren’t interested in this kind of music anymore. Even though I was fairly young I got it right away. What I couldn’t predict was the fact that it would be revived, and has been revived. If anything, certain aspects of the music are more popular now than ever before. You have Ralph Stanley getting $20,000 a show now at age 76, where he could’ve been had for $5000 five years ago. Del McCoury’s quite active now, but it took him about 30 years to become a full-time musician.

Q: It speaks to their sense of duty and stamina, or the fact they couldn’t imagine doing something else.

A: There’s probably a bit of that. Or the alternatives were so bleak they didn’t want to give up what they had. And there were other perks. Bill Monroe liked the women, and there were plenty of ’em on the road.

Q: I was wondering about the fact that we live in an era of mega-celebrity that’s brought to us in image form. But what I wanted to know is whether blue-collar populations are being photographed enough. Do media images give us a true example of who we really are these days?

A: No, I don’t think they do. Country music has always been extremely popular. Hee Haw is a great example. It wasn’t a great show, but it was widely viewed. And the networks didn’t keep it because they didn’t like the demographics of the viewership. It’s the same reason you get wide promotion for young, inexperienced musicians who look good and can video well, and you get nothing for the Johnny Cashes and Merle Haggards of the world. But it’s always been that way to some degree. In the ’70s most of the stars had done time as backup musicians. Merle Haggard played for Buck Owens, and so forth. The ones who were ambitious or good or lucky made careers for themselves — or had a spouse who could make the bookings while they sobered up. But these days marketing has stepped in and decided who the stars should be.

Q: One thing that the book reminded me was that you can tell a lot about an artist by looking at his or her audience. The picture of the fan reaching out to Archie Campbell at the Opry is brilliant.

A: Exactly. That’s how I felt. And that’s the side of the work that interested the Smithsonian. Charlie McGovern, who wrote the book’s afterward, is the popular culture and popular music specialist there, and he talks about the musicians no longer having a connection with the fans. In the early days they did.

Q: You could see that change go down at a place like Indian Ranch, up in Webster, Massachusetts.

A: No question. I began going there in the early ’70s — you could get in for $3. So blue-collar families could afford to go there. Of course, inflation is everywhere, but even $30 for George Jones, who played there regularly through last year, seemed to be a lot. I realize there was competition for these artists; Jones could play the casinos and do just fine. But the only reason to bother was that he had a circuit that was faithful to his work and bought the records, etc. George Jones probably has a record deal now, but a lot of those guys of that era don’t. Records mean nothing to them anymore.

Q: What I love is the fact that the work in Honky Tonk is portraits, but seem to be as ephemeral as a snapshot.

A: Visually, I had ideas when I took them. But I also wanted them to have an offhand feel. I didn’t want to set them up. Hey, I wouldn’t have known how to set them up. My intent was to be formal, but spontaneous. In some cases I just walked up, asked for permission, took the shot, and left.

Q: I interviewed Henry Diltz last year. He shot Crosby, Stills & Nash and Joni Mitchell in LA in the early ’70s. He downplayed his craft, saying all his victories came from proximity and the subject’s candor.

A: He was being a bit modest; he’s a good photographer. But what he does, and to a degree what I did here, is get into a situation; showing up is the first step. And you’ve gotta execute: the exposure’s gotta be good, the camera has to work — all that. And then you’ve got to compose. Some people are savants about it. Maybe that’s the way [Diltz] is. Harry Benson, a wonderful celebrity photographer, is that way. He took the pictures of the Beatles having a pillow fight. He made a lot of amazing shots.

Q: The Dolly [Parton] and Porter [Wagoner] pictures in Honky Tonk were your first professional assignment. Did you know how you wanted them to come out?

A: I actually knew more than I do now. I was stubborn: I knew what I knew and moved forward. Now I question things more. That was for Boston After Dark [now the Boston Phoenix]. We got a press pass and $5. I was with the Rounder Records guys, Marion Leighton and Ken Irwin. It was the least professional job I’ve ever shot. But I knew the picture I wanted. I wanted to show her bare, nothing else around, because I thought she was a gem, so perfect physically. But I was there for an hour with her. No way in the world would I get an hour now. Back then she had nothing else to do. She was just hanging around.

Q: Ever have a cantankerous subject in this series?

A: Not really. Some were nicer than others. One day I photographed Ralph Stanley and Curley Ray Cline. Where Ralph was willing and helpful, he was not friendly. But Curley Ray . . . I could have stayed at his place for a week. Some were very opportunistic. They knew this was a new audience for them. Their audience was dying, and they understood this might help. When the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band did Will the Circle Be Unbroken, Bill Monroe didn’t want to be on the album. But Jimmy Martin said yes, and Doc Watson said yes. They were smart enough to see something might come of it. Roy Acuff was surely smart enough. He was on [Circle] and I don’t think he liked hippies very much. He was a businessman, looking at the future.

Q: Your contemporary career finds you having success with books about canines and sea creatures. Are the denizens of Tootsies and Fred’s Lounge just another kind of creature to your photographer’s eye?

A: No. I look at them separately. They’re stylistically separate, and I look at them for totally different reasons. The reason people know that particular work more [than the country pictures] is because there’s a bigger audience for it. I’ve got ongoing projects, about burlesque for example, that I can’t get out. I’ve been trying to sell Honky Tonk for the last 25 years. The company that bought it rejected it three times in the last 25 years. Previously they considered the pictures to be of hillbillies. Now they’re seen as vintage.

Henry Horenstein will sign copies of Honky Tonk on Thursday, November 20 from 5 to 7 p.m. at risd / works, 10 Westminster Street, Providence. Call (401) 277-4949.