Kate Pierson is showing off the Pepto-Bismol pink cabinets in Suite No. 5. The retro furniture fits right in with the rest of the decor at Kate’s Lazy Meadow, the Hudson Valley, New York motel owned by the redhead from the B-52s and her wife Monica Coleman. There are suites dedicated to cowgirl Annie Oakley and Native American hero Sacagawea, and all of the rentals are filled with ’50s-style whimsy and a collection of B-movie VHS tapes with titles like The Incubus and G.I. Executioner. The kitschy getaway brings to mind the B-52s’ classic “Love Shack” video, where the band partied alongside a crowd of revelers—including a young RuPaul—inside of a tiny technicolor cabin. The mountain hideaway suits the 71-year-old’s eccentric onstage style, but her demeanor is more reserved than the loud decor of her motel or her hair (now magenta) lets on. For our interview, she’s dressed like a ski-bunny in black leggings and fur-lined boots, with pages of detailed notes about her favorite songs through the years, which she says took days of research to compile.
More than four decades ago, the B-52s began with a burst of spontaneity. In 1976, Pierson, Fred Schneider, Keith Strickland, Cindy Wilson and her older brother Ricky shared a flaming volcano drink at a Chinese restaurant in Athens, Georgia, headed home to jam—and never stopped. The band relied on improvisation from the start, combining the music they all loved—surf rock, Afrobeat, doo-wop—to become a vibrant fount of pure merriment. They’ve endured hardships, including Ricky’s passing from an AIDS-related illness in 1985, financial woes, and Cindy taking a brief sabbatical in the early ’90s, but the B-52s are the rare band that never broke up. In fact, the remaining founding members continue to play to sold-out crowds across the world.
Now the band is looking to celebrate their history with a documentary, a book, and a jukebox musical, all of which are in the early stages of development. This reminiscing has made Pierson excited to think about the band’s legacy. “The basic message we put out is inclusion,” she says, noting that people tell her all the time that the B-52s got them through high school or an illness. It’s the kind of music that makes a person feel less alone. “They can forget their troubles and they can dance,” she says. “That’s the greatest thing you can give someone.” Here, Pierson looks back at the music that served a similar purpose for her throughout her life.
Les Paul and Mary Ford: “Mockin’ Bird Hill”
Kate Pierson: My grandmother owned the house we lived in in Weehawken, New Jersey. She lived upstairs, and as soon as I woke up I would go up there, and she’d play the piano. She sang this song, “Tra-la-la, tweedlee dee dee, it gives me a thrill.” I don’t remember much from when I was 5, but I specifically remember her playing that. It’s almost like a vision of her, angelic, playing “Mockin’ Bird Hill.” She was singing dramatically, and that made me think, I want to be a singer.
Jerry Lee Lewis: “Great Balls of Fire”
When I heard this song on the radio in 1958, it just had this visceral effect on me. I had a laughing fit and I couldn’t stop—I started rolling around on the floor. My parents didn’t know what was the matter with me. It just hit me like a lightning bolt, and I was like, “OK, I guess I’m destined to rock and roll.” I had no idea at that age, but kids tore up auditoriums and threw chairs to this song. That’s why parents were like, “Rock and roll is the devil! It’s making kids crazy!” It did make me crazy, in a great way.
Bob Dylan: “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall”
At this point I had my own folk protest band called the Sun Doughnuts, and I played this song for my other bandmates over and over, but they just couldn’t get it. Not only did Dylan’s voice grab me, but the meaning and the message made me realize that the words really matter. A lot of songs, even “Great Balls of Fire,” are kind of funny, but this song, wow—it really affected my life. I became aware of the civil rights movement through music by people like Dylan, Joan Baez, and Joni Mitchell. When I look back at my life, I wonder why I didn’t run away to Greenwich Village and become a folk singer.
Janis Joplin: “Ball and Chain”
This was 1968, and I wanted to look like Mary Travers and Joni Mitchell. I had long straight hair with a part in the middle, while all my classmates had these teased bouffants, which is so ironic now. I transferred to Boston University that year, and that summer, all the hippies moved from San Francisco to the Boston Common. I was like, “Wow, perfect timing.” I got into acid at that time. Of course, I was smoking pot, but LSD was my drug of choice. But it wasn’t like, “Oh, let’s have fun and drop acid!” It was like, “We are expanding our minds. We are going to trip.” So that’s the year I tuned in and turned on—but I didn’t drop out.
I became aware of psychedelic music, but the one singer that really got me was Janis Joplin. I listened to her sing “Ball and Chain” by Big Mama Thornton, and it blew me away. I could never sing like her—I mean, I can’t even try. I don’t know how she did it. She was so unique and seemed to be so free. She epitomized hippiedom, and she seemed like such a strong woman, even though she was singing about a man taking a piece of her heart. She took a piece of my heart, too.
At that time, a group of us stoners were like, “Some music sounds really good when you’re tripping and some sounds good when you’re stoned or when you’re drinking.” I never really got into alcohol, but we drank some really cheap wine and listened to Janis Joplin, and it was like, “That sounds great!” And then we took acid and listened to Janis Joplin—not so good. She wasn’t so psychedelic. She was more of a warm, visceral singer, like red wine flowing through your veins.
David Bowie: “Space Oddity”
I was in the White Panthers, which seems like a joke now, but I was supporting the Black Panthers, holding signs and protesting. After the Kent State shootings, I decided I’d had it with America and went to Europe. I left the summer of ’71 and came back in ’73. While I was there, I met my future ex-husband, Brian Cokayne, who was from Manchester, England. On the way back we went on this major cruise ship that was going one way for $99 in the middle of January. So I go to get on the boat, and who should be getting on right before me: David Bowie. He was dressed to the nines. He had on a really great jacket and these high red leather boots. Some of the crew yelled out “Faggot!” and I was like, “God, that’s David Bowie!” There was a hipster element on the boat, so someone invited what he perceived to be the hipsters to a party, where David Bowie sang “Space Oddity.” It was pretty amazing. It made me realize what an image, what a voice, what individuality he had. It was just like nothing else. It was this new brand of rock and roll that was forming who I wanted to be as a singer. I wish I had gotten to hang out with him, but I was seasick. Everyone was puking all over the place.
Patti Smith: “Horses”
It’s 1978, and this was when we started going back and forth between Athens and New York City. We played CBGB’s and Max’s Kansas City, and we were the first band to play the Mudd Club. We weren’t living in New York so we’d go up and stay with friends. We stayed at Brian Eno’s place once, though he was away—I don’t even know if Brian Eno knew we were staying in his apartment. I saw the Ramones and Talking Heads and Blondie. Debbie Harry and Chris Stein were so nice, they took us to their apartment, and we had drinks over there. They were like the Patsy Cline to our Loretta Lynn.
But the artist I saw that just grabbed me was Patti Smith. She did “Horses” and, oh my god, the poetry at the end and the fact that she had this different voice and this gritty look. She was androgynous and tough and she commanded the stage. I’ve seen her perform many times, and she just takes the music by the throat. I don’t know how she has it in her to express such emotion and communicate that to the audience. It’s like a transfiguration—the wine to blood, the body of Christ. She really transforms the whole atmosphere of the room. She’s the shaman of rock and roll.
R.E.M.: “Stand”
I saw R.E.M. at one of their first concerts at this little hole in the wall in Athens, and we’ve been friends and fans of theirs ever since. But by 1988 we intersected again because they had quit their record company and wanted to sign with Warner Bros., which we signed with in 1979. Somehow we were at the Warner Bros. office at the same time, and Michael [Stipe] took me aside and said, “What do you think about them?” I said, “They never really tried to change us or tell us what to do.” That encouraged R.E.M. to sign with them. We were in the studio then, and R.E.M. came in, and we played “Love Shack” for them, and they were like, “This is a hit!”
Later that year, they were working on Green and doing the video for the song “Stand.” They came to Woodstock, and I was just tagging along and helping them location scout. While filming the video, [director] Katherine Dieckmann said, “We’ll just run into this field and try to do this shot really quick before anyone sees us.” And this guy came out with a gun and said, “Get off my land!”
The B-52s: “Revolution Earth”
We toured for a year on 1992’s Good Stuff, and I got a call from my mother to fly home when we were in Europe. She said, “Your father’s dying.” I knew he was sick, but we were on this big tour. I was devastated, of course, but also like, “I’ve got to fly home right away, but we have a show.” I felt so emotional. I sang “Revolution Earth” like my life depended on it—that song never meant so much to me as when I sang it that night. It was so sad but it also gave me this courage. It just felt like everything will be all right, I’ll get home OK and see my father. Thankfully my father lived another couple of weeks, and I got to be with him when he passed away on New Year’s Eve in 1992.
From: https://pitchfork.com/features/5-10-15-20/the-b-52s-kate-pierson-on-the-music-that-made-her/
