The Story of How Steve Gunn Helped 70s Icon Michael Chapman Find His Voice Again

Photos by Constance Mensh

"I've written over 300 songs, and I was beginning to think maybe that's all that's in the tank," folk-rock pioneer Michael Chapman says over the phone from his home in Northumberland, England. "You just run out of fuel." In recent years, the 75-year-old, who has been writing or recording in some capacity for nearly half a century, has waited and watched as the end of his career as a prolific folk troubadour inevitably pressed closer. Saddled by four years of writer's block as a result, Chapman's once robust output of rock albums has in recent years slowed to little more than scattershot instrumental guitar releases, albums he would record in a day or two for whichever label would ask in order to keep the bills paid.

Then, a younger generation came calling. Spearheaded by North Carolina-based label, Paradise of Bachelors, and backed by Matador darling Steve Gunn on production, the opportunity to revive the full-band sound of his 1970s heyday was back on the table. "They [PoB] asked me if I'd make a record for them. I had certain things I wanted, there were some negotiations for a while and then it just came together."

If you haven't heard of Chapman, your favorite folk revivalists have. Today, Chapman's legacy can be measured less by his own traditional success than that of those he has inspired. Now touted as a groundbreaker thanks to his 70s folk albums being re-issued by Light in the Attic, Chapman remained largely overlooked during his prime, when he turned out ten albums in as many years, emerging as a formidable talent amidst a nonetheless oversaturated folk scene.

His early records— Rainmaker (1969), Window (1970), and his most successful, Fully Qualified Survivor (1970)—re-imagined folk music as an intersection of jazz, blues, rock, and primitive guitar music, a form of playing untethered to traditional form and technique. During the early 2000s, a new wave of guitar players emerged who took inspiration from Chapman's Fully Qualified-era sound, melding it with his later experimental work to form the bones of an American guitar revival. Led by the late Jack Rose (also of drone outfit Pelt) the new scene was quickly infiltrated by musicians like Gunn, William Tyler, Ryley Walker, Daniel Bachman, and other prominent guitar players on premiere indie rock labels. As these musicians have found greater and greater success, Chapman has been quietly chugging along, releasing niche records and touring with the likes of Kurt Vile and Bill Callahan, content with his quiet place in music history.

Now, almost 50 years after his debut LP, the UK-born songwriter is returning with his first full-band record in 17 years, the aptly titled 50, with Gunn at the helm as producer.

"I've done half a dozen guitar albums in the last two or three years. I can do that any time someone rings me up wanting an improv guitar album. Two or three days later I deliver it. It's the songwriting thing I haven't done for a while," Chapman explains, slowly, as if he's discovering this revelation as he tells it. "Maybe I'm just too mellow these days. Maybe I'm not the angry young man I used to be."

These later instrumental albums have maintained a small following, released on labels such as guitar music haven Tompkins Square, but their scopes are narrow, content on keeping a small, already earned audience, than expanding on a core sound. 50 is grand in ambition, as songs like "Falling from Grace" and "Memphis in Winter," premiering on Noisey below, have an untethered bite to them, with Chapman's old, weathered voice rising above Gunn and his band's ramshackle arrangements.

"Sometimes You Just Drive" is an existential dreamer, finding Chapman reflecting on mortality—as he does throughout 50. The song is anchored to death, an at ease meditation on the fate we're all tied to. Despite its heavy themes, the album is rich with vitality, thanks in part to the infused conviction and energy of Gunn and his band. It's an updated survey on the scene Chapman helped inspire, looking both forward and back. This ability to refresh rather than coddle the sound of an aging heavyweight is Gunn's greatest success in producing this album. For his part, Chapman remains humbled by the role reversal.

"The fact that these guys are interested in me—I take it as a very serious compliment," he says. "Basically it means I can put some bread on the table. That's the very, very very, bottom line. It means that I'm still working."

The idea to do a project together emerged in 2012, when Chapman showed up at Black Dirt Studios in Upstate New York to record a session with Gunn and his band. Chapman was on tour and Gunn—who had befriended Chapman ten or so years prior—invited him to the studio to jam. The session was informal but the chemistry was immediate, and Gunn had since been nudging Chapman to return to his songwriter roots in hopes another record would help cement Chapman's legacy as a groundbreaking musician—even if Chapman himself won't admit it.

"He was staying in my little apartment and I was just like, 'It's such an honor to have you here,'" Gunn says, recalling a Brooklyn gig to which he invited Chapman to play. "And he was like, 'Wait wait wait. I'm just one of the guys. Don't ever think of me as anyone else but your friend. I don't ever want you to think of me as some old legend. I'm just one of you guys.'"

Chapman's writing process was arduous, requiring him to confront his writer's block head on if the project was ever going to exist. The pieces were in place: Gunn and his band, the studio, and the label. Now, Chapman just needed a few more songs. "I only wrote three new pieces for it. Until this idea of a record appeared, I hadn't written a song for about four years…Without even thinking consciously of it, I just started to write, which is incredibly pleasing because I hadn't done so in so long," he says. "To come up with three new songs is great. The other stuff is work I was re-visiting that had never seen the light of the day."

Once the new songs were demoed and sent to the label, the session dates were scheduled and the final pieces came together. Chapman has never been one for organized gatherings, saying, "I've never been any good at making plans. Even for the album, they [Paradise of Bachelors] just rung me up and told me to come to America for two or three weeks. Okay, fine. I'll do it." 
Creation cares little for time, and Chapman found that leaning into the existential weight that had impeded his writing process was what he needed to at last unlock it. The album was recorded in a week, mixed and mastered in just a few more. For all the trouble Chapman had writing new songs, the recording process was executed with delightful ease.

50 is something of a mutual gift for Chapman and Gunn. The former earned a sense of pride in having created his first American album, teamed with musicians who greatly admire him. For Gunn, meanwhile, the lessons keep coming. "I think I've learned things that I've already begun to incorporate," he says. "His work ethic—he always has gigs booked. He's always just going to gigs, enjoying the night, getting paid, and going home. There are gigs out there and he's a role model for me in that way. I'm a working musician. It's a crazy thing to try to do and you're up against a lot of odds, but as long as there's a room full of people that want to see you, fuck it. That was a cue for me and something I learned from him."

Chapman sees their toil as little more than the ups and downs of a life in the arts. When asked what it's like to be re-discovered this late in his career, Chapman is almost nonplussed—perhaps more than ever, Chapman has no interest in fame. "It works fine because I love touring in America and making some money," he says. "In the early days, making money over there was impossible. Now, I get a bit of recognition. LITA did a great job on those first four albums. So, thanks to them!"

For Chapman, 50 is 'fine,' just another album released in a long line, another way to make some money and get back on the road, even if his age now prevents him from extended tours. But for Gunn and other fans, the record is a statement—a meditation on the perseverance of the artistic spirit and the power of collaboration, the underdog rising to the top and taking his disciples with him. It's a privilege few receive, and even Chapman, shrouded in humility, finally relents. "I think I'm playing pretty good these days," he says. "I guess."

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