War of the Crowes

During the brothers' time apart, Chris toured with his own band, New Earth Mud, and made two albums, New Earth Mud in 2002 and This Magnificent Distance two years later. Rich did soundtrack and production work, eventually releasing a solo effort, Paper, in 2004. All three albums are solid, appealing examples of the Robinsons' shared passions for the raw poetry in blues and country music and the exploratory charge of late-Sixties psychedelia and early-Seventies power blues.

But the Robinsons' solo records are most notable for what they lack: the other brother. "I had a sense Chris was not coming back," says Gorman, 42, the only survivor, other than the Robinsons, of the Crowes' original Money Maker lineup. (Chris and Rich have gone through almost a dozen guitarists, bassists and keyboard players in seventeen years.) Gorman describes seeing Chris play with New Earth Mud in Nashville in 2004. "I was sitting onstage, thinking, 'He's so happy, so at peace with himself. Good for him.' We had a nice visit that night. But it was funny, because he said something about the Black Crowes. I was like, 'Why are you even thinking about this?' " By then, Chris and Rich had reunited onstage at the 2004 Jammys, the jam-scene awards ceremony, in New York, playing the Crowes song "Sometimes Salvation."

Asked why he could not stay away from his brother, Chris asks his own question, then answers himself right away: "You know what our business is? Keeping this commune on the roll, man. It gets back to the era that inspires me. The Grateful Dead are a prime example. They had a philosophy, a way they set up their dynamic, their lives. And they were heads, man. They were believers in where your art can take you. You can manifest your own place."

He recalls a moment in the Eighties when the Crowes were playing Atlanta clubs for as few as a dozen people (at one, the dozen included Gorman's mother), and Rich, still under the drinking age, cooled his heels outside in a car until showtime. "We all sat down in a room — me, Rich and Steve," Chris says, "and looked at each other. We said, 'We're never turning back.' "

In some ways, Chris and Rich have not changed at all since then. Pipien's reaction when he saw the brothers live for the first time, at a talent show in Atlanta, was that "Chris had this presence. I could sing, but he was a lead singer. And Rich was shy but very accomplished. His thing was chord structures, and he wasn't messing around. He was the pedestal that Chris needed."

Patti Smith describes Rich in similar terms. After Rich introduced himself in a New York coffeehouse a couple of years ago, Smith invited him to play on her covers album, Twelve, and the two have since played live with each other's bands. "He's confident without being egotistic," she says. "It's valuable to have a player who has that creativity and knowledge but who will take a supportive role. But I've also seen him where he was the dominant one, leading the pack. If no one else steps up, he has no problem doing it — without being asked."

Chris is still all excitement, all the time. In rehearsals, Dickinson says, "Chris will dance over to you, looking at you, while you're playing. If it's not happening, he'll start singing or directing something else, another idea. Then he'll dance over to the next cat. I've heard stories about Isaac Hayes, the way he would conduct his band. Same thing."

"I'll put it this way, without being elitist," Chris says with an impish smile. "Not a lot of stuff gets done when I'm not in the room: 'Let's do this.' 'It's time to start.' It's about energy. That's what I've always been for everyone, I hope."

Grateful Dead bassist Phil Lesh, who hired Chris as a singer for a 2005 tour, agrees. "That's one of the things I love most about Chris: his enthusiasm," he says. "He's never down. There is always something that's engaging him. And his knowledge of roots music is vast. It would even approach Dylan's knowledge of that area. He was continually burning CDs for me — 'Check this stuff out' — all cool, deep, old songs."

There is some disagreement as to whether Chris and Rich argue differently, or less, than they did before the split. The disagreements can be more intense, Pipien says. "When you're more sure of who you are, you're going to fight that much more strongly for what you believe in."

"One thing that happens now that never happened when they were younger: They've learned that it may be worth walking away for a few minutes," Angelus counters. "That's a new communication mode. I will say, as a humorous note — in October 2007, there was a heated conversation in the tour bus. It escalated quicker than I expected. And I remember going, 'OK, that's enough. Because somebody just kicked me in the testicles.' I happened to be in the middle."

"Maybe Chris and I had something to work out from a past life," Rich suggests. There is a thin, brief smile. "It would be nice if we knew each other and could just get along."

Chris is too wound up by the future to keep talking about what might have been. "No matter what's happened, I'm not bitter about any of it," he says, bouncing in his chair after two hours of nonstop chatter. "I have no regrets. I've done dumb stuff. I've said things I shouldn't have said. Whatever, man. Choices are made, so you make the next set of choices — hopefully better ones. That's why I'm inspired by that acid wave, the guys who were there when there were no road maps. They were like, 'We'll see you on the other side. We're all hangin' on.'

"I need everyone I play with," Chris goes on, still at high speed, "to believe what Miles Davis said: The music changes you. You have times when you don't have an answer to what's going on. But music will never let you down."

[From Issue 1048 — March 20, 2008]