Mount Wilson Writers

For the initial three days, it rained. An unabated, torrential blanket of moisture smacked the pavement like pistol-precision hammers. He could not go outside. It had been enough of a struggle to get from the airport to the hotel, even though he sat in the back of a taxi cab. The driver had not said a word. What could he say? What would be heard above the din of the water that pulsated and punctured the metal frame of the vehicle? Now he sat or, rather, leaned upon the window sill. He gazed through the watery haze while smoking an endless chain of cigarettes. The smoke swirled in giant white puffs out of his mouth, floating toward the ceiling. His sight shifted from window to drifting smoke clouds, only to return to the rain. The television was on. The picture sent lightning flashes about the room. Yet the volume was turned down. No words emanated, only the shouts of the storm.
Sometimes during the three day stretch he lay on his back on the bed, still smoking, letting the ash drop on his bed covers. Room service was his only encounter with civilization—brief and without exchange of dialogue. Only the passing of money and goods signified interaction. After dinner on the second evening, he happened to catch a fleeting glimpse of himself in the mirror on the dressing table. He looked haggard and older than his twenty-five years. He had not showered or shaven since his arrival. He thought of her. The rain paralyzed his thoughts. The storm continued unceasingly as he slipped deeper into an oblivious depression. This was not the journey he had envisioned.

A deep Dionysian echo quivers down the mythical halls of time and sound. A bellow from the gut of chaos unleashed. This is the resonance of rock n roll—a tenuous handle on a powerful beast. And this is Tea Leaf Green the most recent incarnation of rock n roll divinity, the bottle that contains the bolt, the ancient mystery of controlling chaos with stick, string and drum. Meet Trevor Garrod, the traveling bard, his grand piano slung across his shoulder like a burlap sack. He brings images fantastic, pictures painted in the mind’s eye, restless romantic phantoms that recall the forging of the American West. Like an Icelandic berserker, Josh Clark sweeps up the sweet pastoral musings of his piano playing counterpart and unleashes a hammer-throw of thunderous guitar. His frenetic fingers send his onlookers into otherworldly dimensions. His hell-raising riffs are juxtaposed with the earthy vibrations of Trevor’s song cycle. Meet Scott Rager, the heartbeat, pulsating, pushing the caravan further toward the edge of meaning and discovery, a steady stake in a bungalow of bedlam. His beats a paradox; both primal and machine-like that seem to send the band careening toward the darkness in quest of revelation. Enter Ben Chambers. The only thing more epic that his collection of self-proclaimed nicknames, is the thump of funk that thunders from out his speakers. Direct from the Planet of Green Love, he is the asphalt foundation of the house. His finger taps and thumb slaps craft the contours of the band’s distinctive sound.

Tea Leaf Green possesses a quality that is sought after but remains unformulated, the ability to sound recognizable and inimitable in the same swoop. The astute songwriting of Trevor is magnified and framed by the other three players who interpret the nuances of his lyricism. However, what many songwriters do not have is a flamboyant front-man whose soloing is able to catapult a nice ditty into an epic rock n roll adventure. Yet the band begins with Scott and Ben, college classmates who spent months jamming together before Josh and, ultimately, Trevor joined the fray. From Ben’s backhouse bedroom on Church Street to the sold out confines of the legendary Fillmore, the music has never strayed far from the original vision: organic but ambitious, confident but never cocky, ebullient but thoughtful, soulful and exploratory. The steadily growing, coast to coast, fan base is indicative of the progression that the band has made, each new fan realizing that TLG has “that thing”- a sensation indefinable that hits you in the gut and shudders up your spine. Tea Leaf Green itself is a group that defies definition, the label of jamband, though complementary, fails to adequately capture the complexity of the band’s vision. Though certainly indebted to bands such as the Grateful Dead and Phish, TLG represents the multifaceted fabric of rock music- the raw power of a Chuck Berry riff, the melodic mastery of a Beatles’ tune, the bombastic majesty of a Led Zeppelin groove, and the lineage of Americana embodied by groups like The Band and songwriters like Neil Young. The music of Tea Leaf Green contains a timeless quality, a reverberating pluck on Pythagoras’ eternal strings.

The growth of the band can be measured in part by the mature, newly released third album “Taught To Be Proud,” a record that appeals for entrance into the pantheon of original rock recordings. Just as from one album to the next TLG’s songwriting capabilities expand, each live show exemplifies the movement from apprentice to master craftsmen that the quartet has become. Based on both word of mouth and the plethora of recordings traded by fans, a live performance is an event of epic proportion. It is mystical and maddening, challenging, experimental, and ultimately satisfying. The band now finds itself at a crossroads. After years of constant gigging establishing a steadily growing fanbase TLG finds itself on the brink of larger national exposure—this is an exciting proposition for those who have watched the evolution of this entity. But perhaps more exhilarating still is the untapped potential as the band attempts to carve an indelible mark into the marble edifice of rock n roll music.