Davenport

 

Years active: 1997-2001

 

Location: Dallas, TX

 

Personnel: Paul Blanchard (bass, vocals)/Rick Fontaine (guitar, vocals, keys)/Sam Cannariato (guitar, vocals)/Jim Walter (guitar, vocals)/Kent Corley (drums)

 

Bio:

Davenport, the Dallas-based quintet, has a sound that mixes classic rock legends such as The Beatles, Eric Clapton and Tom Petty with new wave sensibilities, garnered from the likes of U2 and the Cars, with just a touch of Zappa's mad genius and Hank William's melodious country crooning thrown in for good measure. Their stage act is a high energy, tongue-in-cheek rollick through their catalog of self-proclaimed "comfy music," complete with instrument switching and multiple singers.

 

     Lead singer and bass man Paul Blanchard subtly belts out most tunes, and when he steps off the mike, the void is filled easily by keyboardist Rick "Fingers" Fontaine. When guitar duo Jim Walter and Sam Cannariato aren't sharing lead guitar duties, they occasionally take the vocal spot, imbuing the sound of the band with a nice diverseness. The whole affair is kept together by all-star drummer Kent Corley, whose solid rhythms round out the band and add to his mystique as a "dark horse."

 

     Lacking a frontman, Davenport prides itself on being a democracy, both in terms of music and the music business. They have gigged around Dallas for the past two years, playing such local favorites as Club Da Da, the Winedale, and the now defunct Stepladr club.

 

     While no one will ever accuse Davenport of being on the cutting edge of music, their disdain of following trends and slightly loopy brand of "classic pop" is exactly what is claims to be: Comfy Music.

 

 

"Forum", aka The Origin Of Our Name:

People are always asking me about our name, "Davenport." As our little hiatus is almost over and we again plan to embark on our journey to musical fame and fortune (commodities that we have, unfortunately, seen little of. At this point I would settle for mild renown and twenty bucks.) I thought I would explain, once and for all, the tedious story of how we garnered our collective moniker.

 

Like all origin myths, this tale has Archetypical father figures, man against nature as its thematic concept, and ends in a journey to self-discovery in which a few boys become men.

 

The year was 1994. Beck’s hit "Loser" filled the airwaves, gangster-style pants were the rage amongst the lowbrow, and a young Mike Meyers taught America how to laugh. Dorks everywhere mourned the passing of Star Trek, the Next Generation, but looked forward hopefully to a movie franchise. And in a little, dirty, two-bedroom apartment in Clear Lake, just across from the local Police Station and a short jaunt from both the Sonic and the life-bringing Circle K, a group of young men gathered to find destiny.

 

The apartment was wistfully dubbed "The Coop," due to the fact that two of its three principle occupants were in a band called "American Chicken." It was, by any standard, a High School Band, as well as a Pretty Bad Band. Songs such as "Bill Jones," which may be about a car, a cat, a statesman, a radio personality, all of these or none of them. Other gems included "New Deal," a declaration of man-crush on FDR, "Ballad of Blazing Saddles," whose link with the film is tenuous at best, and "The VD Blues," a childishly delightful bit of nonsense. The two aforementioned neophyte musicians were none other than our own Paul "The Flight" Blanchard and Sam Cannariato. One should note that the other Legal resident was none other than Rick "Fingers" Fontaine, who, although not a member of Chicken, should definitely be included in its ruling council.

 

Another near-permanent resident of the illustrious was young Jim Walter, then known to the population at large as "Jimmy." Jim was a lad of only sixteen at this time, little more than a huge nose and a shock of multi-hued hair (a style dubbed "The Mange" by Dan "Saratoga Red" Blanchard), and probably had no business hanging out with a bunch of no-good musicians, save for the fact that he also was a musician. More importantly, this young lad yearned for what only this passage of time would bring: a deep voice. Yes, little Jimmy couldn’t wait to become a man.

 

His nubile languishings prompted an unusual vocal styling. In a rather forced deep baritone, Jimmy would frequently say, "couch." Usually, this had no barring on the matter at hand, and those who knew Jimmy well were often frustrated by his seemingly nonsensical answers to pointed questions. However, this eccentricity stayed with Paul and Sam for years to come.

 

Flash forward to 1997. Paul and Sam, older, wiser, in worse shape but possessing better equipment, were driving through the hinterlands of North Dallas. Sam had just moved to Dallas from the frozen wastes of Illinois, a wise decision on many levels, and he and Paul had begun to form a new band. The band was, at this point, untitled, and, as such, Paul and Sam were rather set on finding a name for their little project.

 

Perhaps due to the fact that Jimmy, now known by the stunted handle "Jim," had just moved into town to assist in the founding, they were reminiscing about days gone by as they made their way through Big D North of 635. As they idled up Preston, an unusual sign confronted them. "Davenport," it proclaimed, as in "Davenport Road."

 

"Hey," said Sam," my Grandmother used to call couches ‘Davenports.’"

 

"Hmmm," muttered Paul, obviously not impressed, yet slightly intrigued.

 

"Do you remember," Sam continued, "how Jim used to say couch in a really deep voice."

 

Paul perked up at this.

 

COUCH said Paul.

 

Sam and Paul looked at each other, and the rest is history.

 

Or not. I wish that were the end of our little saga, but these things never work so Poetically. It took a lot of talk to decide on Davenport. "The Shape" was an early contender. Also "The Bill Palmer Revue," and even "Greg." Boy, we were really close to being "Greg." Just "Greg." I had to argue pretty hard to avoid that one

 

In the end, we decided on Davenport. And all went well, until I received a panicked phone call at about 3 AM from Terry, my hairdresser.

 

"Sam, I just came from a CD release party, and you’ll never guess what the name of the artist is."

 

"You’re probably right, Terry, so why don’t you just tell me," I said, in poorly disguised irritation at being woken up.

 

"Davenport."

 

The world stopped, and I was flung off.

 

"What?"

 

"Davenport," he repeated, "It’s her last name. Her first name is Ndia, or Indra."

 

I thanked Terry and hung up.

 

The band meeting was tense. All the members of Davenport were concerned for our name. We had nothing else to go by, and old arguments of Greg vs. The Shape resurfaced with a vengeance. Finally, after much bru-hau-hau and a considerable degree of ballyhoo, but a surprisingly minimum amount of tomfoolery, the voice of reason (which sounded suspiciously like Rick Fontaine) intervened in the conflict.

 

"What about the Good Flavor Hounds?"

 

"What?" This was quickly becoming a catch phrase for me.

 

"Good Flavor Hounds," repeated Rick.

 

Hmmm.

 

The Good Flavor Hounds were booked at the Winedale Tavern for a Friday night. Rick picked up an Observer to check and see if we were listed. He opened up the paper to the "Eclectic" section and started scanning. Ahh, there it is. Good Flavor Hams.

 

Good Flavor HAMS!?!

 

When we got to the club, we looked at the little calendar on the door, and lo and behold, there we were. The Good Flavor Hands.

 

Good Flavor HANDS!?!

 

When we got on stage and got ready to start, we looked at each other and had one of those moments that guys who spend too much time trapped in tiny little rooms together have, and almost instinctively decided we should probably change the name back to Davenport. I leaned into the mic and said, "Good Evening. We’re the Good Ol’ Blues Brothers Boys Band."

 

So that’s the real story. For those of you who have asked me about our name and received the patented "Well, you know…couch? And Jim," answer, there’s the actual story. Now you, when asked, can say "Well, you know… couch? And Jim." And for the rest of you who’ve wondered but never dared to ask or never dared to wonder, there it is.

 

Adios, and Stay Comfy,

 

Sam