Deep and down

John Malcolm Cuthbertson, a fixture on the local music scene for decades, still hits the open-mic circuit pretty hard—Old Ironsides or the Torch Club on Wednesdays, Capitol Garage or Goldfield Trading Post on Mondays, Luna’s Cafe on Thursdays, etc. These days the musician jokingly describes himself as a “legend” but it’s maybe not that far from the truth. In the ’60s and early ’70s Cuthbertson played in the folk-rock band Pariah, which he describes as a cross between the Doors and Sha Na Na. The multi-instrumentalist and singer-songwriter also hung out with with the likes of Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Neil Young. It’s his lyrics, however, that set him apart. Cuthbertson’s songs boast a fluid, psychedelic quality and are full of abstract imagery and clever wordplay. In 2011, he self-published a collection of work called Letters 2 Aquamaine Song Lyrics 1960-2010. Cuthbertson, whose open mic sets are high energy, chatted with SN&R about why it’s OK to be shallow.

What happens to you up on stage? It seems purely spontaneous.

It’s super addictive. For all the times it comes to nothing, there’s times when you get a real connection. Most of my stuff is pre-written, but I’m improvising somewhat because I can’t stay with the lyrics if I see it a different way. I’ve been trying to write new stuff. There’s a limited number of words and I get too damn verbose. I edit something and it ends up being twice as long.

On the back cover of your book, it says that you still write letters to Aquamaine. Who is Aquamaine?

It’s an imaginary friend I had as a kid. I lived in various places and I would type these letters about what was going on, whether it was imaginary things I thought was going on, and just kind of creating a scenario. We didn’t have a TV. I was making up stuff, a family life that I wasn’t having: successful, rich, whatever.

Favorite lyrics that you’ve written?

“Deep down I’m really quite shallow.” I like that one ’cause it’s truly ridiculous and it’s true. It’s like, the more you think about stuff, the more you realize you need to stop thinking. I can be funny when I’m not trying to be. Early on I realized I was different than most people, so I got a double degree in English and [psychology] cause I knew I was nuts and I knew I couldn’t communicate. I thought that by doing that I would have a leg up on it and be on the right side of the line. It doesn’t work out that way, necessarily.

You’ve been playing a long time. Any good stories?

I was friends with Robin Williams back in the ’80s. I’d be playing music in the park in Sonoma. He stopped to listen one time. We [would] just drink our malts and shoot the shit for a while, just politics and science, everything but comedy or music. I’d see him about a couple times a week. He liked getting together with somebody that didn’t ask him questions or want his autograph.

What was the scene like back in the ’60s and ’70s?

I was in San Francisco most of the time [then]. They didn’t know who I was there either, but I had backstage passes all the time. I could hang around with musicians, not from any talent of my own. My pen pal from the early days would mail me cocaine from Honduras. We started out as stamp collecting pen pals, pretty soon we were exchanging acid for coke. I didn’t really care for cocaine. I traded it for things I liked better. I got to meet pretty much everybody I wanted to when they came to the West Coast: Hendrix, [Jim] Morrison, Neil Young, Joni Mitchell. I was at the [The Band’s] Last Waltz concert backstage, too blitzed on Quaaludes to know what was going on. I didn’t know why Joni was mad. She was in a really good mood up to her performance. When I saw the movie I realized she had broken a string, first song. She had a thin fuse. She didn’t really like the spotlight much, but genius though.

What instruments do you play?

I always used to work stuff out on piano, but I don’t play piano much anymore. I play guitar, harmonica, drums. Hand percussion is my favorite.

Ever attempt to make music for a living?

I made a half-ass attempt. When I got signed to a label and went on the road, I felt really alienated the whole time. If I was with a group it would have been different. It was in 1970-something. I did some cuts, they held on to it. They didn't release it. Harry Chapin had a line, that music was his life, not his livelihood. That was kind of my story.