Today we bring you a band that is steeped in Arizona’s landscapes: LosJones.
The band is both new and old. It was formerly called K-Sonic, but the name didn’t really capture who the band was. So last year the frontman, Steve Jones, put forward the new name, and it stuck.
As Jones puts it, LosJones is a nod to both his heritage and his band family. It’s all about roots and connecting, which is fitting for a band that sings ballads about Arizona.
Before social distancing was on anyone’s radar, The Show’s Lauren Gilger caught up with Jones to hear some of the band’s tunes and talk about their story at the Farm at South Mountain. She started off by asking him about his own artistic background, which extends beyond music.
Full conversation
STEVE JONES: Well back in the ‘90s, I was trying to start a poetry magazine and to compete with a bunch of other rags that were out there, and it didn't succeed much, but people liked the name of the poetry magazine, which was called “Primitive Id,” and so I figured, well, if people weren't going to read my poems, maybe they'll listen to some songs. So, the first band was Primitive Id, and that was back in the mid ‘90s, when everything with Gin Blossoms and stuff was happening.
LAUREN GILGER: Kind of right in that Tempe scene.
JONES: Yeah. So, before taking a hiatus, I was kind of on the Mill Avenue scene.
GILGER: All right? And then what led you to that hiatus? You had to sort of grow up at some point?
JONES: I needed to make money.
GILGER: Right, right.
JONES: I, at some point, I decided that I really wanted to be a family man, and the gigs were not gonna, the gigs weren't really even feeding me, and they certainly weren't gonna feed a wife and kids. So I picked up a trade, started a lighting electrical business, got married and had three kids, and so I was just too busy to play music. The kids were small, so that's why I had to give it up initially. But then, at the urging of my wife, a few years ago, I picked up the guitar and made some phone calls.
GILGER: Right, you got back into it. What was that like, having to give it up? I mean, was it? Was it an easy decision at the time, and then something you sort of slowly missed?
JONES: Oh, it's a regrettable decision, and it's not that I made the wrong decision. I should have found a way to play. And no one asked me to do this. You know, I was kind of being a martyr and saying, OK, you know, time to grow up, time to put down the guitar and go make some money.
It wasn't really necessary. I could have fit music in, and I was the only one pushing myself out of music. Looking back, I lost a lot of time playing music that really was not necessary. But what I realize now that I didn't realize then, is the spiritual value of being able to make music. And frankly, now I feel like, gosh, if you're capable of making music, and you don't, you know, what's wrong with you?
GILGER: Fair enough. And I understand one of the songs you're going to play for us is sort of about that transition, right? This song, “Red Tile Revolution.” What's it about?
JONES: So, “Red Tile Revolution” describes two things. On one level, it describes the development of the South Mountain area, especially along the baseline corridor. I've been in Arizona for a few decades now, and when I first moved here, Baseline was really untouched, and you could really get into nature very quickly, you know, with very short drive or very short hike. And so it's kind of my response, a melancholy response to the fact that this place, this area, has been developed like so many others.
But also, back in the ‘90s, there was a place called the Baseline Mansion. And what it was is an old farmhouse built in the ‘30s, had about 12 bedrooms, and you could, if you were an artist, you kind of went through a vetting period. But if you were an artist, you could rent a room there for like $150 a month. And so it was just filled with painters and musicians, and they would have concerts there, and my band members, I usually had two or three band members that lived there. So we would practice at the Baseline Mansion, and it was a place that I was really connected to.
And what the song kind of narrates is that at one point the lease was up, and so that property became the Secret Garden, kind of the marriage wedding venue. And so in that December, everyone had to move out. And I think it represented a transition in most of our lives. And that was around the time that I had also decided, well, time to grow up. You know, it looks like the music thing's not going to pan out, so time to get a trade. And a lot of my counterparts experience the same thing.
GILGER: Yeah, all right, let’s hear it.
[MUSIC]
GILGER: Let's talk about another song you're gonna play for us. This one was all about Bisbee, I understand? Tell us the story.
JONES: OK, well, the song I think you're talking about is “Flophouse Fairies.” So back in the ‘90s, we used to, I was in a band that played really all over the state, parts of New Mexico, parts of Texas, and we would kind of make a loop, and Bisbee was included in that loop.
And there's a bar in Bisbee called St. Elmo's. It goes back to, I think, it was founded in 1881 and so you can imagine that. The transitions in that town in the time since its inception. So when we play a show there, the band was invited to stay upstairs in what used to be a brothel. And so these rooms are tiny, and, you know, and intended for one purpose, which was not sleep. And we would just bring tons of people from Phoenix, so we would all pile into this place. So it was, really, a flop house.
And again, the song is kind of transitional, because as I was saying goodbye to music, and I'm saying that flophouse fairies need to leave the stage, I was really referring to myself, my bandmates, you know, the people that would caravan down to Bisbee with us. It's like, you know, that's that's dissolving now, that's, that's over.
GILGER: All right, let's hear that song about Bisbee. You can take us out on it.
[MUSIC]
If you’re in a band or know of one you’d like to hear on air, send us a note at [email protected].
