Paul T. Riddle knows that he’s prone to shed a tear or two when the right moment strikes. He’s the first to admit he gets choked up during soft-hearted TV advertisements or when “Silent Night” comes across grocery store speakers during the holiday season.
So, on a Monday morning when Riddle, a longtime drummer and co-founding member of the Marshall Tucker Band, called to talk about his late bandmate Toy Caldwell, he got a little misty-eyed.
“Mine and Toy’s thing was the music,” says Riddle, a soft-spoken 72-year-old who shares stories in a steady drawl adopted from his South Carolina upbringing. “It was always our bond, since I was 17. He turned me on to so much music.”
And who could blame Riddle for showing a little emotion? For nearly a decade-and-a-half, he’s simmered on a way to celebrate the country, soul, and Southern rock stew once brewed by his late friend on songs like “Take the Highway,” “Heard It in a Love Song” and, of course, “Can’t You See.” This weekend, Riddle finally delivers a steaming plate of Caldwell-inspired melodies at Telluride Bluegrass Festival in Colorado, where his newly formed supergroup — Toy Factory Project — plays the tastemaking four-night event alongside Jason Isbell & the 400 Unit, Greensky Bluegrass, and Alison Krauss & Union Station.
Headlining Saturday night at Telluride may be a tall order for a debut gig, but Riddle plans to bring along a lineup of seasoned players. Toy Factory Project includes ace guitarman Marcus King, Dead & Co. bassist Oteil Burbridge, Blackberry Smoke frontman-guitarist Charlie Starr, and sought-after Nashville keys player Josh Shilling.
“We just wanted to play these songs,” Riddle says. “Play versions of these songs the way we play ‘em. We know what to keep – those great hooks and everything. Outside of that, I want us to put our stamp on it.”
The project arrives after 13 years of start-and-stop planning from Riddle and a rotating cast of friends (Caldwell died in 1993; singer Doug Gray continued to front a touring version of the Marshall Tucker Band after Caldwell and Riddle left the group in 1984). A well-respected and arguably under-appreciated drummer in rock circles, Riddle shared long conversations — many with Vince Gill, who provided a shoulder to lean on when he needed it — and once booked studio time for a Caldwell-inspired project. Still, it wasn’t until he saw a YouTube video of King belting “Can’t You See” (“Ripping the neck off his grandaddy’s 335,” Riddle says) that he knew it was time. He wrangled the band, including Burbridge, a supporter since the beginning, and decamped to Peter Frampton’s studio in Nashville’s Berry Hill neighborhood to lay down a few songs.
Burbridge stuck with the project for years “100 percent because of Paul,” he says. “If you meet Paul, you’re going to be in love with him in 15 seconds. And if you’re not … that says way more about you than him.”
Others in the band, like King and Starr, were raised on a curriculum of Caldwell riffs and Riddle rhythms. Today, those songs are synonymous with a Southern sound that inspired a generation of players raised on rock & roll storytelling, honky-tonk riffs, and blues showmanship in equal measure.
To King, Caldwell and his bandmates helped build a home for himself, Starr, and others who straddle the line in country-rock.
“[My grandfather would] have me on a pretty heavy regimen of Waylon Jennings, Marshall Tucker Band, George Jones and Merle Haggard,” King says. “Then my dad would come home and he would put me on to rock & roll and the blues. The one artist I saw cross over in both of their playlists was the Marshall Tucker Band. They were country enough to hit the country crowd. They were rock & roll enough to hit the rock & roll crowds. Hell, they would play swing music, at times.”
And some of King’s earliest guitar riffs were Caldwell covers. “The first time I got an overdrive pedal and I wanted to test it out, the go-to was ‘Can’t You See,’ he says. “My grandfather was like, ‘Turn that shit off. Toy Caldwell would turn over in his grave if he heard that.’”
King’s come a long way since testing out that pedal. Last month, he invited Starr, Shilling, and Riddle to crash a Grand Ole Opry performance. They teased Toy Factory Project with a rollicking rendition of “This Ol’ Cowboy.”
“My manager was there, Trey Wilson, and he was laughin’ when we were done,” Starr says. “He said, ‘I think that was the longest jam that’s probably ever happened at the Grand Ole Opry.’”
In the studio, band members approached the songs with fresh ears, swapping flute for fiddle or adding Hammond B3 organ for touches of warmth. Largely cut on the floor, the songs only took a few takes to capture. Listeners shouldn’t expect a carbon-copy of past hits with polished production. Instead of tracking a blow-by-blow retelling, the album plays like a reintroduction where the notes feel familiar, but sound new again.
A release date for the album is to-be-announced; guests on the album include Frampton, Gill, and others.
“It was magic,” says Shilling, reflecting on the first note he heard from the band. “It was the biggest sound — still is the biggest sound — I’ve heard in my headphones, and I’ve been a session player since I was young… We were just in there having a ball, and the record feels that way because of that.”
Can that magic be defined? “I don’t know if I have the vocabulary to explain or describe that, but I want to sing those songs,” Starr stars. “There are tons of songs I hear every day that I definitely don’t want to sing. Toy Caldwell songs are not that way. They’re the songs you want to sing.”
And when Toy Factory Project hits the stage for the first time this weekend, Riddle’s likely to hear a few folks singing along to his friend’s sweet melodies. When he does, it may be hard for him not to tear up at the sound.
