Singer-songwriter Todd Snider headlines memorial benefit for Laura Ellen Hopper

One sunny afternoon a few years back, Americana singer-songwriter and professional vagabond Todd Snider was running late for his performance at a KPIG Fat Fry.

“I had a tour manager who was sick at the time and I think we got to the show, I mean we were 30 minutes late for me to even go on, you know, because we got lost,” says Snider.

The musician feared the worst, the imminent ire of concert organizers, other performers on the bill, his booking agent back home and most of all, KPIG’s program director Laura Ellen Hopper.

“I remember thinking that I was going to be in a whole lot of fuckin’ trouble,” says Snider. “But when I got there, Laura was just in the best mood. I don’t think we ever brought it up. I just remember thinking any other town would have made this a work day. There I was literally being really late for work and the boss came out and went ‘forget it.’ ”

This Saturday, Snider will give a benefit concert in honor of the late, (and in keeping with the tradition of every reference made to her) great Laura Ellen Hopper, beloved disc jockey, KPIG co-founder and relentless champion of independent musicians like Snider. Hopper passed away last May from complications of lung cancer at the age of 57.

“She was the first person to ever play me on the radio,” says Snider, whose music was fiercely promoted by Hopper. After meeting at a Fat Fry about 10 years ago, the two struck up a lasting friendship, Hopper admiring Snider no doubt for the effortless satirical rambling of his endearing country folk-rock, and Snider seeking Hopper for her impeccable musical instincts.

“A lot of times I would send lyrics to her when I got done with them,” says Snider, who claims that if not for Hopper, he never would have finished, let alone performed his crowd-pleasing, über-specific protest anthem “Conservative Christian Right-wing Republican Straight White American Male.”

“She always would push me to be more outspoken … and she was always a very blunt person. I guess I’m saying I grew to trust her as she criticized me more,” he laughs.

Snider’s songs are a rolling commentary on the trials, exploits and genuine joys of reckless itinerancy and blue-collar life. His wit is wry, his observations piercing, and he’s got this way of calling out wayward politicians and social flaws without naming names.

But it’s Snider’s delivery that cements his appeal, always good-natured, earnest and laidback. This is especially true of his signature interstitial banter—meandering, often hilarious stories, mostly true he insists, that are easily the highlight of his live shows. “I am a pothead and I know seven chords on the guitar,” he declares humbly. “There’s not much to it.”

This Saturday, Snider will perform what he calls his “folky stuff,” but he’s also bringing a band to town for the first time in several years. “People were always trying to push me in either of those directions,” he says, “but Laura always told me I should do both if I wanted to. I want to make people dance and it’s been a long time since I made anybody dance.”

Whatever Snider decides to do, chances are it’ll go over big. Few people possess the musician’s unerring willingness to just roll with a situation. Case in point—our interview, which almost didn’t happen.

“I forgot all about this,” Snider admitted from his house in East Nashville when I identified myself as a reporter from Santa Cruz. “My wife and I were sitting here watching the news and the phone rings, and I say ‘Should we get it?’ I check the caller ID and it says ‘Good Times,’ and we thought, how can we pass that up?”

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