It’s a Friday night at Puddle Jumpers in downtown Tavares. Robert Wilson is standing on the stage arranging his harmonicas and tuning his acoustic guitar, a bulky binder in front of him, crammed full of thoughts, lyrics, and songs. He is tall, but not intimidating, a grizzled but friendly troubadour who has seen a lot from behind the microphone. I walk up to him and say hello. He says that it’s good to see me, and I believe him.
Wilson’s musical roots run deep in the sounds of Hank Williams, Willie Nelson, and Waylon Jennings, country-Americana legends whose sounds were uncompromising and raw. These legends loomed large to a lanky, awkward young man with few friends who found himself bullied and made fun of. His effusive nature belies a shy interior, but he says that his desire to be heard overtook his reluctance to put himself out there, and he picked up a guitar and started writing songs.
Wilson is just getting started in what promises to be his busiest year yet. He has three albums scheduled for release in a 6 month window. Up first is his first solo record in years, Crime of the Century. Eschewing the production of a band and a large studio, Wilson sequestered himself in his home studio with nothing but a guitar to pound out musical ideas he had been cooking but had not brought to the band. In these songs we find Wilson stretching his legs on his own, taking up all the musical space for himself. There’s no committee, no middleman between his voice and the record. Wilson sells the honesty of all the lyrics he sings with an earnest devotion to the music and style, which pulls from homage, but becomes something all it’s own. The music just is; a statement of being from an artist whose music career has spanned over fifteen years in Florida.
Tonight he is leading his band, the Dead Show Dealers, through a raucous jukebox journey through their brand of Americana rockabilly. He’s a natural storyteller, his original songs and selection of covers telling tales that are close to his heart; sometimes sincere, sometimes absurd, but every one honest. His energy and passion on stage is palpable. The songs crescendo and build, living lives of their own. Their sound is unapologetically unproduced and unfiltered. His voice is comfortable in a deep dive baritone or a fleeting falsetto. Wilson’s harmonica cooks while Bink Skiba’s dirty blues lead guitar colors the musical passages with sonic color and nuance while Joe Ramirez on bass stays solid in the pocket for everyone to fall back on, and Johnny Krueger dances over the top of the fray with the banjo. I clap along with the beat and Robert is smiling.
Long before the Dead Show Dealers, Wilson took the stage as Gas Jackson, his rabble-rousing, loudmouthed alter ego who became more trouble than his success was worth. Later this year, he’s re-releasing an album of Gas Jackson songs, aptly titled The Ghost of Gas Jackson.The ghost haunts him still, his success under the moniker standing in stark contrast to the amount of destruction the alter-ego inflicted on his life. In Wilson’s own words, Gas Jackson was a “monsoon”, a larger than life being whose rock and roll lifestyle was as exhilarating as it was destructive. He was harsh on stage, often saying things and singing songs about things that wouldn’t exactly be welcome in church on Sundays. His fans loved it. As Wilson says about his brazen style, “If you’re gonna make a joke about something offensive, you’d better be sure it’s funny.”
It took a while, but Wilson was driven to finally leave Jackson in the past, for his health and peace of mind. Of that time, Wilson reflects on how true to himself he was being. “I felt like I was hiding behind a character,” he says now.
With Gas Jackson behind him, Wilson had to take seven years before he got back into music again, erecting his home studio with the intent to sell out, write commercial jingles and songs for others. But something tugged at him, something in his head that said I don’t want to be forgotten. “I still had something to say,” Wilson says. “My mother always wanted me to be a preacher. It turned out that I was, it was just a different kind of gospel.”
The Dead Show Dealers retake the stage effortlessly, a transition so seamless that you’d swear they never left the stage to grab a fresh beer or mingle with the other attendees. Harmonica notes come flying out as if impromptu flourishes, a creature in and of itself, barely restrained by their author, let off the leash and allowed to occupy the front of the musical space, never going the same place twice and hungry for the spotlight. When it’s finally reeled in, you feel that you’ve been subjected to a wild ride. The crowd cheers and Robert bows.
After a few years of writing new material, Wilson formed the Dead Show Dealers, a kind of rotating jam club consisting of various friends and musicians he had known throughout the years. It was a come as you are atmosphere, no commitment, just show up and jam. Wilson was the creative driving force and the dock to which all other boats moored, but it allowed Wilson to amplify and diversify his sound. What once was a one man show of acoustic guitar and harmonica became a multi instrumentalist dream, with bass, banjo, percussion, and electric guitar, just to name a few. The culmination of this work is set to be released as a live album, Live at Orlando Brewing, recorded at the Orlando Brewing Company across two nights of performances in 2018.
Wilson calls his shows Family Reunions, since it’s the unifying glue that brings fans and friends together, young and old, near and far. When Wilson and his band take the stage you can’t help but tap your foot and bob your head. He is the preacher and we are his congregation, lifting the music up in worship as his disciples of the style country blues that he’s espousing from his pulpit. Wilson is the kind of artist that you want to listen to, the kind of music that makes you suspend your conversation to really pay attention to the live act that’s performing at your bar that night. His stage presence commands your attention and lures you in.
Come and be a part of the family, and they’ll always have a warm smile waiting for you at the next reunion.
Robert is putting his instruments away after the show, sharing a drink with a friend. He gives me a big hug and thanks me for coming. Of course, I say. I’ll see you at the next one.
Matt