B Y - A L E X - C R E V A R - (A B - '9 3)
S P E C I A L - R E P O R T I N G - B Y - M I K E - W O R T H - (A B - '8 3, - J D - '8 6, - B S E D - '9 9)
P H O T O S - B Y - K I M - B A N C R O F T

The boys were back in town for three sold-out shows that added luster to both their reputation and to Athens' hallowed spot in the rock n' roll universe

LIGHTS travel across the arena floor, over the tops of heads and arms contorted to the pulsating music. An occasional uplifted face is frozen in time by the strobe-light waves, which wash the crowd in fluorescence—meant to inebriate the senses and unite the congregation. The dichotomy that is a Widespread Panic show: you can be with thousands of people or, for three random hours during an otherwise hectic life, you can be all alone. Just you and this band, joined in something symbiotic—an experiment of discovery.

This was the scene as Widespread Panic and their fans, from nearly every state in the Union, descended on Athens for three sold-out shows on April Fool's weekend. It instantly became one of those epic weekends where the town is more than just a conglomeration of streets and shops but an incubator for as many as can fit under its nurturing light. And Athens did feed the masses with the weekend's three-day soup du jour—the boys of Panic were back in town (the band still calls Athens home) and their Classic Center concert dates kicked off their spring tour.

As show time approached, the crowd meandered toward the front doors of the Classic Center, where security guards patted them down. All around were the last-minute pleas of people trying to figure out a way to get into the sold-out concert. Fingers were outstretched above heads and "I need a ticket!" could be heard like the chirping of a migrant flock of birds. "I would do nearly anything and pay just about anything to see these guys," said Phoebe Harrington, a junior education major from Atlanta. "There's a great feeling about sharing the love of the music with others and with a band that cares."

Sliding right into crowd favorite "Chilly Water" from the band's first recording, the shows started hot and never let up. A continuous stream of surprise guests graced the stage, making Athens perhaps the most talent-laden rock n' roll town in the world for a 72-hour period. Guitar virtuoso Derek Trucks, Randall Bramblett, Chuck Leavell of the Allman Brothers, Atlanta's own Col. Bruce Hampton, and Mike Mills and Bill Berry of R.E.M. all joined in the fun, playing instruments that made them famous and also trying their hands at ones they were willing to freelance. The shows ended after midnight on Monday, April 3, to Neil Young's "Rockin' in the Free World" with help from Drivin' and Cryin's Kevn Kinney.

But the Widespread Panic shows represented more than just a homecoming, or a first stop on a concert tour—the feeling was more akin to a massive family reunion. Fans parked, camped, and squatted anywhere a space could be found to pay homage to the hometown heroes, whose music acts as a beacon for this traveling community nearly 140 stops a year.

This scene—people putting their straight lives on hold and traveling hundreds of miles to see Panic shows—is a lifetime away from 1986, when the band's goal was simply to make enough money to pay the rent. Back then, if someone actually came to hear the three UGA alums—lead guitarist Mike Houser, lead vocalist and rhythm guitarist John "J.B." Bell, and bassist David Schools—the experiment that was Widespread Panic was considered a success.

The founding members have since grown into a sextet—with the addition of drummer Todd Nance, percussionist Domingo "Sunny" Ortiz, and keyboard player John "Jojo" Hermann—and the band is now amongst the top jam acts and highest-grossing touring groups in the world.

"Originally, we were just a bunch of guys who didn't know what to do with ourselves," says Houser (BS '85), a former Oglethorpe dorm resident ("I don't know how anyone in O-house ever graduated") whose UGA degree is in chemistry. Houser's nickname during those early years—"Panic"—was the origin of the band's moniker. "The greatest form of flattery," he says, "is when somebody pays to hear you play. But our goal is the same today as it was when only 20 people came to see us at the old Uptown Lounge: play music and have as many people have a good time as possible."

"There's a place—if you're lucky—where you're not so much playing the music as much as the music is playing you," says Bell, a Cleveland, Ohio, native and UGA English major from 1980-84. "That's where I wanted to go from the beginning of every song. And we don't always get there. Sometimes for days or weeks."

Since those Uptown gigs, when Houser's sister once had to cover the band's bar tab because they drank more than they made at the door, the band has secured footing on hallowed ground few bands ever know—success on their own terms.

"There's a place—if you're lucky—where you're not so much playing the music as much as the music is playing you."—John Bell

PAUL SIMON once said that every generation throws a hero up the pop charts. And for musical generations since the late 1970s, Athens' style and the bands inside its city limits have defined what "college music" means.

Widespread Panic's incarnation of that definition started when Houser, Bell, and Schools met through mutual friends and began jamming together, between 1983-85. The trio officially became an act when they contacted Nance, one of Houser's boyhood friends, and convinced him to pull his drum set out of his mother's closet. "I called Todd and asked him if he wanted to play in a rock n' roll band," says Houser. "I didn't have to ask twice."

Todd was a great example of how this band has moved over the years," says Schools, whose monster bass licks on the wide-necked six-string ("You just need big hands") can move crowds to voicelessness. "We had been playing around with drummers from the [UGA] jazz school and from around town, but nothing ever took until Todd. Things seem to find a way to work when they work. When the right person creates a position for themselves, they stick." Ironically, Schools came to Athens from Richmond, Va., not because of the local music scene, but because of the reputation of UGA's journalism school.

In 1988, the foursome released "Space Wrangler" on Landslide records. It became the basis of their style—a dab of southern rock, a dash of 70s guitar solos, a voice (J.B.'s) that could reckon with a house of frat brothers or preach to the choir—and the whole thing was swathed in jam-based psychedelia.

"They were playing a style of music no one else in this town was trying," says Uptown Lounge owner Kyle Pilgrim, who gave Panic their first break in 1987, letting them play Monday nights. Pilgrim eventually sold his share of the Uptown to focus his energies on the Georgia Theater. "The Georgia Theater owes everything to Widespread," he says. "When they started taking off, they stayed loyal to us and didn't play all over town. To this day, they haven't forgotten us."

In 1991, Panic hit the big time. After selling out small venues all over the South, they signed a seven-CD deal with Macon's Capricorn Records, which helped make the Allman Brothers famous. Capricorn gave the band creative leeway by supplying the money and resources needed to produce a wider body of work. The listener base spread across the country and the band started to fill venues from Red Rocks to Europe.

Like the Grateful Dead and the Allmans, Panic's strength lies in live performances.

"One good thing for us is that we have never been reliant on our studio stuff to survive, and that gives us leverage to negotiate with labels because we don't have to take just any deal," says Houser on the decision not to renew their contract with Capricorn after the release of the band's last album, "'Til the Medicine Takes."

Ironically, the band's live performances may hurt album sales. Encouraged by the band to trade bootlegged show tapes, Panic's ultra-loyal fan base makes a hard first push for each new studio release, but a second wave of buyers is not usually present—prompting even Capricorn media releases to call the band's CD sales "fair." And although the band ranks near the top 50 in touring acts, ahead of Britney Spears and Sheryl Crow, Panic's top-selling album, "Ain't Life Grand," has sold fewer than 250,000 copies.

"The wonderful thing about Widespread is that they haven't changed their approach to music and what they set out to do," says long-time friend and producer John Keane. "You have a great group of guys who decided to stay true to their music and not follow the easy trends. As a result, the band has gotten better and they did it with a style that has stayed real."

"One good thing for us is that we have never been reliant on our studio stuff to survive, and that gives us leverage to negotiate with labels because we don't have to take just any deal."—Mike Houser (BS '85)

TWO WORDS you cannot get through a conversation about Widespread Panic without hearing are: Family and nice.

"I love what I do because we are honestly a family and the band is just a group of nice, caring guys," says Mary Armstrong, who wears several hats for the band's production company, Brown Cat, which is headquartered on Foundry Street in downtown Athens. "They have stayed outside the mainstream and are really more about the fans and the community. They donate to homelessness and child abuse prevention, and they sponsor the local NPR station. But more than anything, we have fun."

What about the ugly "hardened celebrity" price of fame?

Bell says the biggest drag is about being famous is "folks outside the band insisting you're famous, although you don't buy into it. If you're lucky, you play music because you dig music, and playing music with other folks is a way to express oneself."

"Somewhere in there the music and the realness gets to cooking and brewing and it becomes just part of the stew."—Dave Schools

Regardless, success has made the band less accessible to the outside world—and interview opportunities are a hot ticket. But the attention hasn't made the group any less humble.

"I still remember that day from hell, when we were just starting to travel to shows," recalls Houser, suddenly far away. "I knew we were in for it when a black cat walked in front of our old Bluebird school bus on the way to a couple of gigs in Virginia. On the same trip, we lost the bus, went through three rental trucks, unloaded our equipment on and off vehicles who knows how many times, and drove all night both ways because my mom was waiting to video tape us at one of the clubs."

To the outside world, the band's reward system and sense of validation would seem to come through the entertainment of their fans. But in conversations with members of Panic's inner circle, it's obvious they're more concerned with the method by which the entertainment is created.

"It was never our intent to be one of the biggest jam bands in the world, to sell out the Fox Theater several nights in a row—or to hold the record for the largest album- release party," says Schools of the nearly 100,000 people who packed Washington Street in Athens for a free Panic show in April 1998. (The band also lays claim to the largest crowd in New Orleans jazz fest history: 63,000.) "I can still remember playing venues and thinking, 'Boy, it would be great to sell this place out.'

"The biggest tenet of our ideology is to have everything be real. That is why J.B. never wanted to sing fiction—because the real life stands alone and tells a real story. Somewhere in there the music and the realness gets to cooking and brewing and it becomes just part of the stew."

SATURDAY NIGHT is unseasonably warm, and crowds are gathering in Athens bars. Those people tend to have tickets; the ones milling about in front of the Classic Center are still trying desperately to buy tickets. On Clayton Street, two fans from Memphis are explaining why they follow this band all over the country even though they're in their thirties and have "real" jobs.

"Quite frankly, I can't think of anything I'd rather be doing," says restaurant manager Todd Dudley. "I have saved my money for a month to see these shows and there are lots of people who are doing similar things to see Widespread Panic wherever they go. I keep coming back because it is how I get my good vibes—it is my release. I'll be happy after this for months."

"I keep coming because it's always a different show," says caterer Jeff Johnson. "And I'm never bored because these guys give you an infinite number of shows through special guests, all of their songs, and different arrangements. And every now and again, they catch you napping with a great version of an old cover. If you love music, Panic is just about the best thing I can imagine."

Inside the show, the crowd is lathered in lights and the boys of Widespread Panic are painting themselves in and out of musical corners on the way to places no one in the audience—or on stage—can imagine. Seven albums into what began as an experiment among friends (a new self-released live album, "Another Joyous Occasion," hit stores in May), Widespread Panic is somewhere in the adolescence of fame. Dedicated not just to music but to a philosophy, a family, and their hometown, they still don't quite know how to handle all the attention. But they are grounded enough to know that what will be, will be—and that keeping real is the only way to perpetuate the dream.

drumming for success Arvin Scott is in heaven on the Classic Center stage—his head thrown back, his mouth curved into a serene grin, his eyes closed. Scott's hands deliver swift slaps to the goatskin head of his drum, and the rhythms pierce their way through the wall of sound coming from his adopted bandmates in Widespread Panic. "The sound of the drum gives me a certain feeling, like being more alive," says Scott, a UGA percussion instructor who was asked to sit in with Widespread Panic during each of their three Athens concerts. "The expression you see on my face when I play, that's what I'm feeling." Widespread Panic was a fun gig for Scott, but his real passion is teaching drumming to students from pre-school to college. That passion was in evidence when Scott's Drumming for Success students performed at this year's Human Rights Festival. Performing on a portable stage in downtown Athens, 30 young faces imitated their mentor's ecstatic countenance. On cue, they beat miniature drums in accompaniment to his lead. Drumming for Success motivates students ages 3-13 to set goals in school and at home. If they succeed, Scott gives them brand-new hand drums. Drumming for Success attracted the attention of Widespread Panic percussionist Domingo "Sunny" Ortiz, who told Scott he wanted to do whatever he could to support it. Ortiz and Scott joined forces in a Georgia Theatre event called Beat the Drum, and the proceeds went to Drumming for Success. From that initial connection, Scott became a guest performer with Widespread Panic. He played with the band at their New Year's Eve show in Atlanta, and then again in Athens. "I was happy because I thought I'd play only one set, but I ended up playing every night," Scott recalls. "It was a thrill to play with that band, to be on stage with them." Scott also teaches a community drumming workshop, is the founding director of the UGA Hand Drumming Ensemble, and works with the UGA Core Concert Dance Company. His first CD, Spirit of the Drum, is on store shelves around town. "My drum courses give people the opportunity to discover percussion for the first time, or the opportunity to expand their knowledge. It's life enriching," says Scott, who teaches a class in African American percussion music. He has also developed a course for music therapy. "I just do what I do. I believe in making contributions," he says. "I think about what I can do to enhance—whether it's the School of Music, the University, or the community. I'm always happy to do something if I feel that good can come of it." —Stacie Sutton (ABJ '99, BS '00)

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