Hoping a Star is Born Through Music Called…
Mountain Rock
By Rebecca Thomas
Two semis roll in, a swarm of policemen barricade Main Street and 10,000 wild turkeys charge out like the Bucs’ defensive line.
A regal-looking
gobbler in a red velvet suit struts around with a 45 rpm record around
his neck, and in the midst of all the chaos, musician Josiah Cephas
Weaver takes the stage, acting as if this fanfare is a normal beginning
for a concert.
Normal? No, but
typical of the ideas Weaver hopes will make him as rich and famous as
Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn and Dolly Parton.
“We’re out to make a
million dollars in the music business,” Weaver says convincingly. “Not
a million, a billion. This dream to make it big in the music business
has been in my mind since I was 5.”
Not that
Clearwater’s businessman-turned-musician needs the money. He is already
the epitome of an American success story: a 15-year-old from the
Shenandoah Valley in Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains journeys to
Clearwater, spends the first night in a phone booth, learns the tile
business and makes a fortune. Now, at 38, he owns Weaver Industrial
Park on Hercules Avenue and claims the two business ventures netted him
between $8 million and $10 million.
But that’s not
enough. His promising music career suffered a two-year delay, but he’s
back, scrambling for success with plans in hand. He wants to be a star.
Neon marquees. Footlights. Tours. The works.
Besides the hefty
bankroll, several things already separate the mountain man from hordes
of aspiring singers. There’s his music - “mountain rock” he calls it -
an unlikely blend of country, disco and bluegrass backed by a 22-piece
orchestra. Then there’s his P.T. Barnumesque showmanship, the offbeat,
visual hook that might keep the audience wondering if it’s watching a
show or interrupting some slightly eccentric man’s fantasy.
“I’ve got some ideas
that are unreal,” Weaver says, explaining his musical concoction is
meant to entertain, and more importantly, gives his listeners a musical
message to relate to.
During a recent
political campaign picnic, Weaver converged on the crowd by helicopter.
As the spotlights followed the helicopter’s descent, members of the
Florida Gulf Coast Symphony – in tuxedos the tails-waited for the man
dressed in knee-high workboots and maize buckskin-like pants to start
the show.
Weaver plans
eventually to add theatrics to that show opener: A helicopter hovers
overhead; the crowd spots a man dangling by a rope tied to the runners.
The spotlight zeros in on an eerie-looking fog consuming the stage, and
suddenly, Weaver appears out of nowhere.
But it’s not
Weaver’s theatrics that have caught the ear of several record
producers. He recently recorded four songs at CBS Records in Nashville
using its studeos and orchestra and choral group for backup vocals. As
yet, though, he hasn’t signed any contract and is negotiating with
several major labels.
It appears the
overwhelming desire to record music takes a back seat to a more
consuming rationale to wait for the perfect contract. Weaver says he
won’t sign with any company until the deal is sweet enough and gives
him 100 percent control of his music. If that fails, he still has his
own company –Wild Turkey Records-to fall back on.
If Weaver sounds
like he knows what he wants and how he’s going to get it, it’s probably
because that two-year layoff-caused in part by a personal tragedy and
bad business deal-gave him time to plan it out.
A producer in London
wanted to book the budding musician on a European tour, he said, but
Weaver opted for musical beginnings on American turf. He then released
an album nationally, “but we don’t want to talk about it, “Weaver says,
“It was like one of those things you see on ’60 Minutes.’ ”
His wife contracted
leukemia, and he benched his career to be with her; she died in June.
Since then, he’s been playing locally to small crowds, visiting record
companies and writing songs.
But that all seems
apropos. Weaver grew up as part of a musical mountain clan, influenced
by the simple, carefree home-style pickin and fiddlin’.
“The major influence
comes from my mother’s people,” Weaver explains. “I’ve got aunts and
uncles and nine brothers and sisters. In the mountains we all would
have a picnic and everybody would bring instruments. And when we got
together, it was a band within itself.”
Eventually Weaver took his music with him to entertain his buddies at his father’s sawmill.
“They use to tease me,” Weaver recalls, fondly. “When I put on shows they’d say,’Elvis hasn’t got nothing.’ “
Young Weaver wrote
songs about whatever stimulated his creative juices. He composed his
first song at 5, after visiting the marketplace in Roanoke. He now has
1,000 songs to his credit on subjects ranging from politics to jogging
to a melodic lecture on renewing pride in America.
“I always could
write a song about whatever came to mind,” Weaver says triumphantly.
“In an afternoon I wrote a gospel album. Songs come to me fast. It
always has been that way.”
But since Weaver
can’t read or write music, he is only the idea man behind the songs. He
writes the lyrics and sets them to music on his guitar, but the
polishing comes from an arranger who pens the score for the orchestra
and vocalist.
The zany show ideas –from the wild turkeys to the Evil Knievel helicopter landing – are his creations.
“We’re going to make it big in the music business,” he says assuringly. “We’re going to make it happen."
“No idea ever comes forth unless someone pushes it. You either come out in front and pull or be bogged down and push.”
And there’s no need to ask whether the mountain man is pushing or pulling.