Behind the scenes with Dog Talk
NUVO Newsweekly, May 29, 1997
by Susan Guyett

Ann Lietz-Workman came to Indianapolis from Arkansas to help with preparations for Dog Talk's CD release party. As mother-in-law of guitarist Bill Lancton, Ann is at the Jazz Kitchen at 4 p.m. on a Friday afternoon earlier this month arranging confetti, distributing candy, hanging balloons and making sure everything ship-shape for the evening.

Like any other jazz club in town, Dave Allee's popular College Avenue establishment requires dim lighting, live music and a couple of beers for its ambiance to take hold. Seeing the Jazz Kitchen in broad daylight is a little like seeing your girlfriend for the first time without any makeup -- you still love her, but some of the mystery... well, is gone.

Ann knows the night will take on a life of its own as soon as DT's fans -- known as Mambo Doggies -- take their seats and the George Killian Irish Red starts flowing, but she's not about to leave anything to chance. She grabs paper towels, cleans counters, stows away clutter and makes sure the ladies' room is stocked with paper products.

If Dog Talk groupies are Mambo Doggies, Ann is the Mambo Mama Doggie -- protective, supportive and apparently prepared to nip an ankle or two if the need arises.

As one of the city's most popular and successful bands, Dog Talk has gotten its second wind with the release of Twiddling the Tightrope, their newest CD. With all original songs, this CD is less raw and more musically sophisticated than their earlier release, It Happens Every Day. Twiddling showcases a Dog Talk ensemble that has its act together in every respect.

The musical chairs of changing band members appears to be over, and the five members of Dog Talk are mature and comfortable enough to explore some new musical territory. Business isn't bad either. That's where Ann and the Dog Talk family comes in. Everyone pitches in, and where possible, family members -- not outsiders -- are hired to perform the business of the band, which is run as a corporation.

Now, the fact that DT is settled doesn't mean everyone thinks the same way musically or that there are never any disagreements, but the basic direction of the band is set. That security has cleared the way for the musical maturity you can now hear when they perform. It has also given members of the group the opportunity to spread their own musical wings.

Don't get the idea for a moment Dog Talk has gone serious on us. Far from it. The Conga line, the stuffed dog, the toy box, the Pixie Sticks, and the goateed, anatomically correct doll name Kokomo remain essential elements of the band's repertoire.

That unadulterated good time is just how band founder Michael Beck wants it. Angst be damned. If you are suffering and don't want to be shaken into a good mood, the best advice is to stay away from Dog Talk. All but the blackest mood will be driven away by an avalanche of booming eclectic percussion, cheerful tunes, the irresistable charm of lead vocalist Clifford Lawrence White, and the sheer exuberance of a faithful following who show up and throw themselves into every show.

But as their fans have come to expect, nothing about Dog Talk is predictable. They size up a room quickly and will, when the wind is blowing the right way, slip in some of the contemporary jazz that Bill Lancton plays so well. And, if the audience can be trusted to take a break from its raucousness, White gets to sing a ballad featuring Jim Litchfield's fretless bass. There is no play list. Lancton, who calls the songs, decides spontaneously what the audience and the band members need.

Like an urban myth, Dog Talk seems to have been around longer that it has. DT started as a fragment of Michael Beck's imagination, and became a reality when someone called him on it. He sent in a tape of songs to the first Rock the Ripple music festival audition and was chosen to perform in 1992. The trouble was, there was no band. So he got Cliff White, guitarist Pat Casey, keyboard player Bob Schneider, Jeff Willock and Jami Berry together and they became Dog Talk.

Their Rock the Ripple debut was a technical disaster, but it established them as a funky, fun-loving, slightly over-the-top band that was willing to send reality packing for an hour or two. They spent the early years making a name for themselves, but, as with any new band, there were lean days of playing for a handful of people at free events.

Casey's music was a darker rock sound, and eventually he decided to leave DT. Schneider stayed on but was given the proverbial boot over musical and other differences. Casey and Schneider now perform in a group called Hot Java.

Other musicians came and went as Dog Talk redefined itself as a band. You won't hear Michael Beck bad-mouth any previous band member, though there are bruised egos and hurt feelings in the wake of the changes.

Today, Dog Talk's schedule is filled with gigs that range from the Children's Museum to 500 Festival parties, corporate parties, wedding receptions and regular appearances at a number of local clubs, like the Jazz Kitchen, Mickey's Irish Pub, the Rathskeller and BW-3 in Castleton.

Try to put Dog Talk in a musical category and your head starts to spin. It's a blend of Caribbean, African, ska, zydeco, pop, reggae, and calypso with some jazz tossed in. Dave Allee says there are purists who wonder why he books them at the Jazz Kitchen, but he makes no apology. They are good at what they do, he says, though it's not jazz. They bring a different crowd into his club and they definitely keep the cash register ringing, he said.

Dog Talk's loyalty to Allee is equal. They didn't really think of any other place to have the release party. Allee, a trumpet player, is one of a number of local musicians who play on the Twiddling CD, along with violinist Cathy Morris, Jay Young on the alto sax, and Steve Rhoades on the trombone.

"They don't fall into any category," said recording engineer and producer Michael Graham of the Lodge.

The band consists of Beck and White, the only two members of the original band who remain DTers. Cliff Fortney, who played with Beck in a band named Zelda as high schoolers in Fort Wayne, provides the keyboard, flute, harmonica, and penny whistle music, in addition to his singing and songwriting abilities. At 44, Fortney is a mild-mannered insurance company worker by day. He and his brother Tom, keep Dog Talk on the Internet and maintain the band's web page.

Bass player Jim Litchfield also holds down a full-time job as an audio buyer at IRC Audio and is the band's equipment guru. He lives in Westfield with his wife, Emily, and stepson, Adam.

Until Bill Lancton came along, Dog Talk could have been Spinal Tap in the guitar department. Just as the fictional band used to lose drummers, DT couldn't keep guitarists. That all changed when Lancton, a New York native and ISU grad, joined Dog Talk in 1994. Bill's wife, Luann, might as well be a member of the band, too. Although she's an artist by profession, she's a roadie by night. She mixes the sound, works on the publicity, puts out the band's newsletter and keeps all the members up to date with itineraries and directions.

At 44, Michael Beck brings a "been there, done that" attitude that could be a bore if he weren't so upbeat. Where he's been and what he's done -- along with Cliff Fortney -- was to have been an original member of a band called Happy the Man, a 1970s American progressive rock version of Genesis or Emerson Lake and Palmer. HTM has a cult following, with websites on the Internet for loyal fans for the now-defunct group. They still receive royalty checks every year. Happy the Man signed with Arista records, and that experience gave Beck all he needed to know about the record business. Today, he's willing to consider record offers -- saying, "We'd be fools not to" -- but he's also not losing sleep in his Meridian-Kessler home over the idea. Chasing the elusive and reality-biting world of a record contract is a young man's dream, says Graham. "It involves a lot of sacrifice, and sometimes it's not worthwhile."

Just look at the Why Store, Beck says. They are touring their "doowahs" off and making less money than they made as a popular regional band. The side of the road has been littered with talented Hoosier artists like Henry Lee Summer and the Wright Brothers, who were eaten up and spit out in search of those record company dreams that turned into nightmares.

Dog Talk is the sum of its parts, but one of its parts is front and center.

Ask Annie Milligan how she met her husband Cliff White, and she'll tell you about seeing him perform at Penrod on the grounds of the Indianapolis Art Museum.

Was it love at first sight? "It was for me," she says.

She's not alone. This John Marshall High School graduate combines charm and talent. That charm, his friends say, is genuine. Unlike performers who are one thing on stage and another in real life, what you see is what you get with Cliff White.

Whether he's being Snatchmo or Cab Calloway, singing a sweet ballad or harmonizing with the other band members, you know when White is on stage. His trademark head scarf is more than decoration -- it keeps the sweat out his eyes, and sweat he does during his energetic performances. This infomercial-watching, dog loving (he has four at his Anderson home) singer can dance with three women at once and play the drums at the same time. Like all charmers, Cliff White makes you think no one else exists when he's talking to you, even though he's aware of everything that's going on in the room at all times.

Dog Talk has the young set -- kids -- and the Baby Boomers securely in their audience base. They do all-age family shows at the Rathskeller and open air shows all the time. The elusive group is the 18-to-24 year olds who don't seem to be ready to get into the Dog Talk tent. They've played the Vogue, but as opening acts for Buckwheat Zydeco, not as the headliners. Being the top name on the marquee at the Vogue is something they'd like to do, but again, it would be on their own terms.

Beck's goals for Dog Talk are simple: "To make a living and [be] proud of what we do."

One thing is for sure, Dog Talk will continue to evolve. The band members appear to respect each other enough for that evolution to take place without a big bang. Fortney, for one, is anxious for the band to continue its creative journey. "It's easy to stagnate and get comfortable. It's easy to forget the reason you got where you got," he said.