By John Matuszak
He has gone from being a coffeehouse crooner to a bar-room bard, then a pandemic-era social media performer.
That’s a lot of ground to cover. But after more than 50 years of writing and performing, Alex Bevan, the dean of North Coast singer-songwriters, still has something to share.
A day after the January 6 Capitol riot in 2021, he penned a “drone’s-eye view” of D.C., the place where “Martin Luther King spoke to more than a few,” offering his own vision for the nation’s future:
“This is your land
This is my land, too
We come together, and we make it through.”
“To me, it’s what needs to be said,” Bevan says before a performance at Sarah’s Vineyard, across the road from Blossom Music Center, where he’s performed many times throughout his career. “There are all sorts of ways to look at a problem. There’s not just a silver bullet. There’s the laying of hands and the enduring hope.”
The ability to adapt and still stay true to himself has been a hallmark of Bevan’s career.
Stalled, Not Stuck
Like the rest of us, he was blindsided by the arrival of COVID-19 in March 2020 and the subsequent restrictions that came in its wake.
He had a full schedule of folk festivals, wineries and other live gigs, along with time for camping with his wife, Deidre. “It was perfectly balanced, and it went to nothing.”
After the requisite period of cabin fever at his North Madison home, the man who once billed himself as the “Low-Tech Troubadour” pieced together the necessary technology to livestream concerts following Gov. Mike DeWine’s daily briefings.
Those high-tech offerings continue weekly on his Facebook page, drawing admirers from across the country and as far away as Germany.
It doesn’t take the place of live performances, he says. “I love live performances and the immediate feedback. That’s where the songs come from.”
“A lot gets lost” when playing online, he admits. “I look at that blue dot and pretend it’s a person, and try to respond to the chats as best I can.”
His approach to his craft remains old-school. “The three tools I like best are guitar, pencil and paper.”
Springboard
The East Cleveland native played French horn at Shaw High School but traded it for a six-string companion. “I played at every church coffee house I could get into,” and as a teenager, talked himself into tavern gigs “with everything but a note from my father.”
He served his apprenticeship with such musicians as Gusty and Sean at Fagan’s in the Flats. He attended The University of Akron, but left following the Kent State shootings. He tried to launch his career in Nashville, but couldn’t get any traction.
Back home, he built his reputation as a musician and songwriter, opening for acts like Jimmy Buffett, Billy Joel and others. He put himself on the map with his song about “a skinny little boy from Cleveland, Ohio, come to chase your women and drink your beer.” His profile was boosted by frequent appearances on WMMS radio’s Coffee Break Concerts and other broadcasts.
His album “Springboard” and subsequent releases showcased his versatility with ballads such as “Rodeo Rider” and the love song “Grand River Lullaby.” He hilariously cataloged the woes of the Cleveland of “smoke stacks and chemical urns/and the only damn river in the world that burns,” assuring us we could make it through “because we can laugh at ourselves.”
His performances were leavened by a combination of slice-of-life observances and tall tales.
Through the 1980s, Bevan played with various bands until he eventually found himself stretched too thin as a member of a group, and opted to focus on a solo career and songwriting.
He’s glad he made the change.
“I think I’ve become a better communicator in some ways. I’m able to tackle subjects both from a youthful perspective and a mature perspective.”
Sonic Boomer
In a recent project, Bevan looked at the legacy of his generation.
“Baby… I’m a Boomer… yes I am
Surfing at the edge of a Medicare plan…
Should have thought of this sooner…”
From his viewpoint, the ‘60s was a time when “Warhol called it a can of soup” and “Lennon sang of love and truth.”
He believes their legacy is mixed.
“I don’t think we did enough,” Bevan says, with a laugh. He still thinks there is time to make a difference. “It’s very easy to stand here and look back and say we dropped the ball. You can always pick up the ball. There’s the present and the future; the past is set.”
Younger musicians are “creating their own opportunities,” as he did, and are building communities, “and that’s good to see.”
Bevan says he feels just about ready to take on the role of teacher, using material he produced for the area Metroparks and during a stint with SeaWorld to offer environmental lessons for kids, “to point young minds in one direction” and direct their imaginations “beyond what you see on the screen.”
These messages are for the grown-ups, too, he adds.
“I want to be part of something larger. It doesn’t have to be about me.”
His heart remains open to everyday experiences that he transforms into art and a continuing connection with his audience. During a visit to Lake Erie State Park, he was inspired by drawings he happened to see, and wrote these lyrics:
“On a space in the middle of the old sidewalk
There was grace from a child with a chip of chalk
Only four letters were all she wrote
Just one word – that word was Hope.”
Information about Bevan’s recordings and upcoming performances can be found at alexbevan.com.
Staying Skinny
A Life, an Attitude
By John Matuszak
I remember the very first time I heard Alex Bevan’s “Skinny” (little boy from Cleveland, Ohio). It was the summer of 1977 and it was coming from a friend’s car radio, most likely tuned to WMMS.
The friend was joyously singing along, waving his arms as he repeated the lyrics about “running down the road I got the back tires smokin’, the highway’s open, not a cop in sight.”
Most importantly, it was about our town. I believe that you aren’t a real city until someone writes a song about you. And at a time when Cleveland was a Rust Belt joke to most of the country, Alex had found exhilaration and abandon in the heartland.
I immediately went to the record section at Newberry’s department store in the Great Lakes Mall and bought the 45 of “Skinny.” I still have it.
Then came the live performances in many venues, from high school auditoriums to the Mayhem outdoor festivals at Lakeland Community College, and later, bars throughout the region. He played frequently at the Frontier Room student union while I attended Ohio University in Athens.
While I didn’t live in Cleveland for the next 40 years, when I returned to see family and friends, the question I always asked was, “Where is Alex playing?”
He was the entertainment for the surprise 25th wedding anniversary party for longtime friends and big Alex fans, Jack and Debbie Evans. We thought she was almost as delighted with the entertainment as with renewing their vows.
I told Alex that night that he had been the soundtrack of our friendships.
On a poster Alex autographed for me, he wrote, “Stay skinny.”
Like most of us, I’m not as skinny as I used to be. But I think he meant that being “skinny” was an attitude, a way of going lightly through the world and holding onto the joy of life from our younger days.
Thanks for the laughs and the life lessons, Alex.
John Matuszak is a northeast Ohio native who has worked as a journalist and photographer for 32 years here and in Athens, Columbus and Michigan
