SOTW - May 18, 2012

It seems last week's post created a bit of confusion. After "The Greatest Rock and Roll Band in the World, Part II" went to press, I received a series of misplaced Spence-has-finally-seen-the-light-and-is-in-the-Beatles-camp now emails. C'mon guys. You know better. An explanation is in order. I do not have permission from Derek Wildstar to disclose his identity and may never. The true origins of GRRBITW, II will likely remain a secret for the Ages. However, let's assume for the sake of this discussion that I did have some creative input. As a lawyer, a critical skill is the ability to see and argue both sides of the same coin. Sometimes, in furthering a client's interests, I must argue a position that I do not necessarily agree with. Agree or disagree, I must be able to put myself in the other side's Cole Haans.

Over the years, for purely academic reasons (of remote interest to about 0.056% of the populace), I've put on my advocate's hat and tried to defend some unpopular musical positions. On that fateful night back in the spring of '95 in Room 18, did I actually believe that the Goo Goo Dolls were better than Phish? No, Cliff, of course not. I was just trying to make an impossible argument. Post Partridge Inn at Kirk's place back in '99 did I really consider Matchbox Twenty's Rob Thomas to be Eddie Vedder's superior? C'mon Katie! That's borderline treason against the Seattle Crown. It was those Sunday before Monday Practice Round "Strong Island Iced Teas" from Somewhere talking. We've all heard of "the sake of discussion." The phrase means nothing if it's not employed from time to time.

But let's not lose sight of one immutable fact. I am a Stones man. Always will be. Their music is engrained in me. It's there in those cherished slivers of time: Mary Katherine at Wes's Rapper Mansion deciding one "Tumbling Dice" wasn't enough (thus violating Music Commandment 3: Thou shalt never voluntarily play the same song more than once in a night.) At least two different times in my life, having an uninitiated Stones fan look directly at me with an impossible smile on his face and exclaim something close to: "I don't know what this is, but it is bad as hell!" in reference to a Stones album. (Jason Hill about half way between Americus and Cordele on highway 280 at 12:48 a.m. in the back of Mitch's red Sunbird after a Get Yer Ya Ya's Out version of "Sympathy;" James Versaggi back in Room 18 part of the way into Track 3 on Exile during a late night "jam session.") Sitting Indian style on the floor of the Country Club Apartments in Americus with Mitch and Pheil exploring England's Newest Hitmakers like middle schoolers on their first trip to Six Flags. The weight of these experiences is pleasantly overwhelming. They keep me anchored to the Truth. I am a Stones man.

Your Song of the Week for May 17, 2012 is one of their masterpieces. Lyrically, it's chock full of stirring imagery laid against the hazily interspersed instrumental layers so prevalent on Exile. The song substitutes piercing shots of piano for guitar ornamentation as it builds to the greatest mid-song Crescendo in Rock history. On a long ago night in Buckhead, we were at Wes's apartment at the Manor. It was late. Very late. There was a party in progress. Sensing a moment, my dear (and incredibly open minded) friend Jason Wallis pulled a vinyl chair in from the porch and positioned himself, alone, directly in front of the 5,000 whatever watt speakers. For a reason we will never know, he had on sunglasses. This song was playing loud enough to be heard from there to the Disco Kroger. Jason was singularly engrossed. He was seated with his back to all other revelers. It was him and the speakers. As the Crescendo was reached, he felt motivation from deep within, the kind that brilliant music inspires. In a measured display of sheer joy, he balled his hands into two tight fists and slowly raised them as far above his head as he could reach.

"What a beautiful buzz!"

The Greatest Rock and Roll Band in the World, Part II

by Derek Wildstar

[Editor's note: For those readers new to this blog, the below represents a response of sorts to the prior post, "The Greatest Rock and Roll Band in the World," which ran on September 29, 2011 and can be viewed here.]

The 'Stones? Really? They are perhaps the greatest purveyors of rock imagery ever. Fine. But to say that Rock and Roll is an attitude frames the question so as to beg the answer. We are talking about music, not behaviors. Music is art. Rock and Roll is a genre of music. Rock and Roll is thus art. In music as in life, God is in the details. Imitation may be the highest form of flattery, but some don't seek to dole compliments. The greatest musicians have something More in mind. They are driven not to refine, but to reprogram; to take the old mold, smash it to pieces, and set it out with the Monday evening trash. We didn't put a Man on the Moon by putting a larger engine and sleeker fins on a 1963 Chevrolet. No, getting there took something More. Rock will always be about something borrowed, but most importantly, it's about something new.

Once the question is properly framed, the answer becomes clear. The Beatles were the Greatest Rock and Roll band that ever was and ever will be. Why? [Deep breath.] It's not a simple matter. Their brilliance is so multi-faceted, so dense with so many overlapping layers, it would take an army of much smarter men than your writer a very long time to deconstruct it; assuming that is even possible. But we can try. Let's break what sets the Beatles apart from the 'Stones (and every other band in history), down into three discrete parts: Imagination, Ability, and Instinct.

Imagination. It all starts here. Like the greatest artists in our history, they did not innovate, they re-imagined. Never has a band so thoroughly created its own plane, it's own mode of existence, as did the Beatles. While outrageousness was sometimes present, it was always focused and employed for the sake of the music, not in the public creation of a marketable brand. While the band forged an eternal image in the popular consciousness and became icons among icons, they were much more concerned with the sound that resulted when they picked up their instruments.

Their creative implements were crude. Harnessing the voices inside their heads was a challenge unto itself. Per Wikipedia, the first practical sound recording and reproduction device was the phonographic cylinder, patented by Thomas Edison in 1878. So, when the Beatles first entered the studio in earnest in 1962, the World was just over four score into the reliable recording of sound. It was like Michelangelo trying to paint the roof of the Sistine Chapel with a only a five-gallon bucket and a six-inch wide horse hair brush. The Beatles grasped the challenge and used it as inspiration.

Their evolution was stunning. Within the first 12 months of their recording career, the they came up with this. By late 1966 (that's roughly 48 months later), they made it here using techniques such as "bouncing down," "varispeeding" combined with wah pedals and fuzzboxes (now common, then unknown), all on a four-track recording system that was designed to record a singer, guitar, bass, and drums. Just a year later, they were able to produce this. If the Wright Brothers had gone from flying 120 feet to circling the globe non-stop in the time it took them to finish high school, their advancement would have been no more remarkable. To make such a swift progression, the Beatles had to think in grandiose, but very well-defined, terms. What they sought to create was so massive, yet they could see it so clearly. It's like they could see the forest, and every single leaf on every single tree simultaneously. Even today, over 40 years later, their imagination is staggering. Perfectly realized art never fades into obscurity.

Ability. As a species, we are anxious to ascribe greatness to a person or thing. We overuse superlatives. Anyone who comes up with a good technological idea is "brilliant." Such brevets must be used more sparingly. True brilliance is much more rare than we try to make it. It is most clearly demonstrated in art. You can see it and Hear it, and know that you've never experienced anything like it before and never will again. (Don't believe me? Go the Museum of Modern Art in New York and stand in front of Starry Night for 10 minutes.) It wraps itself around you and drenches your thoughts. Such brilliance cannot be learned. It is 99.99% nature. It will emerge from the artist whether he is born to a seaman in Liverpool or a landed nobleman in Venice. I refer to such artists as "Supernatural." Their ability is so far beyond that of the mortals that surround them (even the merely great artists of their peer group; Eric Clapton is a great guitarist, Jimi Hendrix was Supernatural) that it cannot be explained by any Law of Nature.

To a man, the Beatles were not just good or great. They were Supernatural. Their talent ran so fantastically deep that, when it was unleashed, it did nothing less than change the entire world. It shone from them like summer sun off a windshield. Like William Shakespeare picking up a quill, its emergence was inevitable. They had that Look in their eyes; that singular focus that tells you that a person was put on this earth by some power that we cannot comprehend to do a very specific thing. There is no other way you can describe the response they generated from those that saw them at peak vitality. There was no luck to what they did. It was programmed in them at some sub-microscopic level that we will never understand. Ability.

Instinct. Nothing lasts forever. Art evolves. The masters can see around the next corner before the world gets there. They create what lies around the bend. As good as the Beatles were as musicians, they were equally astute at knowing what to do and when. First, they hooked the world with smiles, short hair, innocence, teen hijinks, and kinetic energy. Then, perfectly on cue, they reached out past the edges of the world as they knew it. They expanded their minds and mode of thinking, soaking up something very foreign and weaving it perfectly into an evolutionary musical fireball. This fearless departure from the path that made them famous is a badge of their instinct. In hindsight it seems like a natural and foreseeable progression. At the time, it was the boldest of strokes. (What if the world had tuned out?) Then, as the energy of psychedelia ebbed, they stripped down and moved back towards their roots, with avant-garde embellishments that laid a creative foundation for genres and sub-genres to follow. It was a exhilarating and dynamic process.

At every step, their timing was perfect. There was never a misfire. It always felt not just fresh or new, but revolutionary. Never once, did they pause too long in a movement. They were always just up around the bend from the mortals who chased them. The brief arc of their career was marked by sustained, intense brilliance. They never let addictions drive wedges between them or adulterate the music; substances were used, but as a propellant. They knew that where a concert was a brief moment in time for the fortunate few who saw it, albums live forever. There wasn't time for everything. Thus, in 1966, they played their last proper concert just 30 months after their first appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show. Energy staved not running around stages in loud dress was funneled into recorded excellence. (Does the Beatles' relative lack of stage performance legacy detract one iota from their place in history? Of course not!) The result was beyond criticism.

Alas. Nothing lasts forever. Viciously strong forces tore at them. They could never have been the exception to the rule. But the last resounding mark of their brilliance was how they responded when they felt their Light threaten to dim. There could only be those four. They had to be perfect. They had  to evolve. When that became impossible, when the path that led to the End became visible, there was only one solution. It was the impossible choice. The world would have loved them forever. The fortunes they could have amassed (on top of the ones they did) by simply continuing to exist defy the imagination. New personnel could have replaced the disgruntled. But at some very near point, the music would have suffered, and they knew it. The scholars and critics would have tuned out, replaced by nostalgists buying the music because of the name attached to it, and nothing more. No way. They could never let the perfection of what they created be spoiled by their own obsolescence. So, in a final, masterful stroke of brilliance driven by their unfailing instinct, they pulled the Plug. Just eight short years after they became the Four, the Greatest Rock and Roll Band that ever was or will be resigned to the Ages. Could it have been any other way?

Diamond Rugs Album Review

[Editor's Note:  As anyone who knows me even casually will tell you, I have strong opinions on music. It is a topic of deep philosophical interest for me. I love to debate it; to hear both sides of the same coin when it comes to a given band or album. My tendency to debate makes me prone to published music criticism. I've been a sucker for it since my teenage years. Where some kids wanted to be like Larry Bird, I secretly aspired to be David Fricke (likely because I was a slow and clumsy athlete). I am happy to report that, two decades later, my first bona fide Rock and Roll review has been published. My friend, local indie eminence Hardy Morris, kindly asked me to review the album from his new side project and I (nervously) agreed. The below review ran in this week's edition of the world famous Flagpole, Colorbearer of Athens, Georgia. You can see it on the Flagpole's website here. Special thanks to Music Editor Michelle Gilzenrat for lending me a little sliver of paper.]

The Diamond Rugs

Diamond Rugs
Partisan Records

In their eponymous debut, The Diamond Rugs -- John McCauley and Robbie Crowell (Deertick), local hero Hardy Morris (Dead Confederate), Ian St. Pe (The Black Lips), Steve Berlin (Los Lobos, not a misprint) and Bryan Dufrense (Six Finger Satellite) -- shoulder the tattered "supergroup" banner for indie bands everywhere. They're good enough to handle it. The result is a punchy collection of post-hardcore power pop that diverges from the artists' historical work just enough to keep things interesting. Morris reports that the album came together naturally. It shows. 

Any mystery about the sound is answered in the first 145 seconds with the superb St. Pe country punk, "Hightail"; think Buddy Holly after listening to the Ramones for two days. No time is wasted from there. The longest of the 14 tracks (the chaotic pedal steel infused buzz of Morris's "Country Mile") clocks in at 4:33, and half the songs are under 3 minutes. It's a concise piece of work. 

McCauley carries the majority of the vocal water. Deer Tick fans confused by the recent Divine Providence will be comforted to hear him in a more-listenable pop incarnation here. His propensity for lyrical laziness is present, with an overly repetitive focus on beer, women, or both ("I'm a kinda feeling, like a lion, or a tiger, listening to my baby purrrr" from the unfortunately-titled "Gimme a Beer;" the even more unfortunately titled "Hungover and Horny"); but when he's on—the irresistible brass-drenched Springsteenesque romp, "Call Girl Blues" or the verse-verse-verse coming-of-age mediation, "I Took Note"--you're smiling.   

Morris adds focused muscle to the proceedings. The taut march of his menacing "Motherland," complete with ethereal harmonica details, is an album highlight. He steers the new punk gallop of "Big God" like he's made a living in the genre. Most listeners will find this more accessible than his work with Dead Confederate.  

The presence of Berlin and Dufrense brings flourishes of instrumentation into the mix. Berlin's brass accents add authority to the biting "Tell Me Why," and a plaintive tone to (album lowlight) "Christmas in a Chinese Restaurant." Even an accordion shows up in the Gene Autry high plains drone of "Totally Lonely" (the album's endearing oddity).   

Who knows if there's a future here? For now, viva la "indie supergroup!"

To My Gam

Will the Circle, be unbroken?
By and by Lord, by and by.
There's a better, home awaiting,
In the sky Lord in the sky!

Valrie Chambliss Spence was my maternal grandmother. She was "Gam" to me. While she wanted to be "Gram," my developing tongue's inability to produce "r's" shortened the nickname. She called her husband by his last name, which is the same as my first. That was confusing, so she would more commonly call me "Bruise" (short for "Bruiser," which is what my infant pediatrician called me) or "Sugar." The latter term, when drawled by a native Sumter Countian, sounds like "shugah." That pronunciation always amused me, so that's what I took to calling her as an adult. "Shugah." That's the last thing I ever said to her. "Bye, Shugah."

Gam was a guiding force in my and my sisters' lives. She relentlessly encouraged us to read, write, listen, and learn. Never content for us to merely do something (write a cursive uppercase "R," for example), she wanted us to do it well. It was a by-product of her eternal pride in us.When I wasn't trying hard enough, she'd say "Bruise!" with a graciously disapproving stare. She taught us to do right; to be gracious, courteous, and honest. Like every mortal, she was imperfect. But when you've done as much as she did for as many people as she did for, your blemishes are less relevant. I could go on for pages about how much I loved her and how much she and the other "Spence" did for me, but there was something about her that is more germane here. She loved music.

She was born on April 9, 1922 and grew up on Bond Street in Plains, Georgia. Then, and now, Plains is a small town in a great wide open space. Honesty and integrity took root when the place was settled and grew like kudzu on a blazing summer day. Plains is a genuine place. Neighbors love each other. The fact that our 39th President grew up in such a place seems impossible, until you visit. Gam grew up surrounded by decent and honest people who did right. What they lacked in sophistication they made up for in perspiration. There were a limited number of ways that people living in Plains in the 1930's could entertain themselves. Nearly all of them involved music. It's no wonder that Gam loved it as much as she did.

She lived through a depression, world war, and the advent of the automobile, radio broadcasting, electric sound amplification, telephones, televisions, computers, and virtually every other major invention of the 20th century. In her nostalgic moments, she told me of going to the old Windsor Hotel in Americus during the war and swing dancing with the British pilots who were at Souther Field for training. (What an image! I can just see her whirling away on the heart-pine floors and grinning ear to ear as a rendition of Glenn Miller's "In the Mood" blared). Thank goodness she didn't fall for any of the Johnnies; instead, she married the other Spence (Lewis Lafayette, or "Pop" to me) on July 15, 1944. Pop was in the war at the time, so she had to ride a train with her mother to Abilene, Texas to marry him. (It must have been a bit strange having her mother along for the honeymoon, but like I said, Plains is a small town.) They would be together for 67 years and loved each other for every day of every one of them.

Gam educated herself well, eventually earning a masters degree in education. She taught lower and middle grades in the Sumter and Terrell County school systems for 28 years. I can only imagine that there are hundreds and hundreds of souls walking this earth who she pressed relentlessly to learn, and who still appreciate it to this day. Among her students was a future First Lady of the United States, then Rosalynn Smith. We hardly ever went to a lunch at the old Town & Tourist restaurant in Dawson when one of her former students didn't walk up exclaiming, "Miss Spence!"

Her mother taught her to play piano as a child. She never forgot, and continued to play into her 80's. Though her father had what she described as a lovely tenor voice, she didn't get much of it from him. Her mother gave up on voice lessons for her pretty quickly. Gam was by no means a great singer or pianist, but she tried hard, and what came out of her musically was earnest and driven by feeling.

Having grown up a devout Baptist in a place of deep Faith, most of the music that she learned and loved was old-time gospel. It was at her core. She had an old upright Steinway piano in her living room on Lee Street in Dawson. There was always a dusty brown Methodist hymnal on top of a bunch of Rogers & Hammerstein sheet music inside the little wooden piano bench. The inside of the bench had a deep smell of musty oak. When she lifted the heavy lid, she'd always say: "Be careful, Bruise, don't get your finguh" when she let it back down. Most often, she was going for the hymnal. Any time she could coax a family member near the piano she'd get it out and start reeling off hymns in her left-hand chord heavy style. My family had some wonderful times (not necessarily me; youthful protest) around that piano singing Christmas carols and the like. A song was rarely finished; she was too excited to have her family singing in her living room to be patient.

She kept my sister Beth and me as children when my parents were out of town. She'd make us get dressed in our finest (white and black saddle oxfords, pastel knit tie with short-sleeved dress shirt in kids M) and go to the First Methodist church in Perry, Georgia. Every single time a hymn went up, she would do her best to get me to sing.

"Oh for a thousand tongues to sing, my Great Redeemer's praise ..." 

I can just see her looking down at me with an amused smile scrunching her eyebrows together and mouthing "Bruise! Sing!" I'd try. Sometimes. When I did, she would look back up with a smile on her face. When I didn't, she'd just roll her eyes. I do not sing particularly well and never have. But she loved me so much, and she'd convinced herself that her Bruise could sing. It was an article of faith in her, and it inspired me to at least try.

As time went on, I slowly realized that Gam had been right all along, and that music was one of those human endeavors in which it is better to try hard, and fail, than not to try at all. I bought myself an acoustic guitar as a young adult and taught myself to play it. I would take it to Dawson with me on some of my final visits to her house before she moved to the nursing home. Almost three decades after she'd paid me as a child to do my "woka woka" routine to Jim Croce's "Bad Leroy Brown" (see Moment Zero), I stood there next to the little Steinway in the living room with her trying to master the song's 7th chord swing. The years had stripped away most of her ability to play, but I could feel her joy. It was written in her smile and the nod of her head. There was nothing she'd have rather been doing. Her Bruise was finally trying right there next to her.

When I woke up last Wednesday, March 28, 2012, I picked up my phone to see what email I'd received overnight. Gam had been very ill and was in the hospital. The first message I saw was one from my mother with only the date as its subject. Her message was simple; grief would allow her nothing more. Before the sun rose, Gam moved on to the Sweet By-and-By. Choking back the tears, all I could think to do was to lie there and sing a couple of lines for her:

I'll fly away oh Glory!
I'll fly away!
When I die, hallelujah by and by,
I'll fly away. 

I'll miss you Shugah. But I'll sing from now on, because that what's you taught me. I promise.

To The Beacon

Juxtaposition.  Taxis, concrete, Picassos, glass, bagles, steel, tie-die, furs, martinis, brownstones, loafers, taxis, reubens, Birkenstocks, old fashioneds, hipsters, bankers, doormen, pinot (you pick it), concrete, truffles, neon, Van Gohs, parks, markets, bikes, flowers, taxis, overcoats, plastic bottles of Budweiser, tapas, joggers, beggars, concrete, skyscrapers (modern), skyscrapers (post-modern), skyscrapers (gothic), Wayfarers,  Southern Rock, Warhols. Notice a pattern? 


That's what makes the anachronism that is the Allman Brothers Band's annual residency at the Beacon Theater so special. It is charmingly out of place. When you close your eyes and listen to a gritty '70 version of "Statesboro Blues" ("I'm goin' to the country ...") a $10 bottle of Heineken is not the first thing that comes to mind. You don't see many Harleys in New York. I'm not sure how the Beacon run started (in 1999) or how it has survived, but it is one quirky tradition. I checked off a decade-old bucket list item when Cress and I went this year on March 17. 


The Beacon.  For someone expecting the Fox Theater North, the first thing that strikes you about the Beacon (on Broadway, between 74th and 75th) is its size. Designed as an early motion picture and vaudeville house and opened in 1929, like so much in New York, it's intimate. The seats that my friend John Lyndon had been so kind to line us up with were perhaps 120 feet from the stage but 50 feet from the back wall. (Close quarters are automatically a good thing at any concert worth attending.) It's also ornate; a recent restoration brought it back to its original glory. It's something to behold. Per Wikipedia, "[t]he Beacon's ornate neo-Grecian interior features thirty-foot-tall Greek goddesses flanking the proscenium arch of its curtainless stage, which can rise from its basement level carrying a full classical orchestra." I don't have enough architectural vocabulary to do it more justice, but this was the view from our seats. 

Revival and Relevancy.  No man (not even Keith Richards) is immune to the drag of time. Contrary to the refrain of the night's opener, the road does not go on forever for a Rock band. It's a finite thing. The Allman Brothers are no exception. Following Barry Oakley's untimely death (yes, motorcycle accident in Macon) in 1972, the band was steadily sapped of its vitality as drugs, alcohol, and dissension took their inevitable toll. By 1982, they were done. While a reunion was inevitable, there were two directions it could take. One would have found a couple of the original members performing with a supporting cast of no-names on the Southeastern casino circuit under a banner that lost its true meaning long ago (the pure commercial sell-out). 


Instead, they chose the High Road. They put themselves back to together and did the hard work that is necessary to remain relevant after decades in the business. They reinvented themselves. Beginning with the introduction of Warren Haynes, Allen Woody, and Mark Quinones in 1989, the band fused explosive young talent with the four remaining original members (Gregg Allman, Dickey Betts, Jaimone, and Butch Trucks) to exhilirating effect. The real evolution came with the dismissal of Dickey Betts (sniff sniff; but for the better) and the introduction of then guitar prodigy Derek Trucks in 2000. That began a period of rebirth that saw them dig back into their catalog and re-invent their classics while unveiling a seemingly endless catalog of new covers ranging from Derek & the Dominoes to Dr. John to John Coltrane. A musically-vital project now more than a decade old has resulted. 


Music people are motivated to go and see this band today not because of what they are playing, but how they play it. (Could the same be said for an Eagles reunion crowd or a modern Jimmy Buffet audience). While every ABB crowd is inevitably sprinkled with Decade of Hits devotees waiting for a "Rambling Man" that will never come, the bulk of the people there are real music fans genuinely interested and invigorated by what is happening on the stage. (It's the way I console myself over Duane Allman's untimely death. As great as he was, would he have followed the same course of self-destruction that pushed Jerry Garcia out of musical relevancy in his later years? At the ripe old age of 65, would he still have the volcanic fire that Derek Trucks puts out night after night? Not likely. As a matter of pure music history, it's better for the artist to be gone early than to wither for years in irrelevancy. I'll still never get over it.) Thus, Cress and I ducked out of the chaos of the Broadway sidewalk into the Beacon about 8:00 p.m. 


The Show.  For a Southerner with an affinity for Rock, the Allmans are the home team. They are tied inevitably to the history of Our State like the '91 Braves. Thus, it's hard for me to write about them objectively. What I can tell you is that they are still capable of powerful performance, but they are decidedly older than they were even five years ago. Like an aging quarterback trying to will his aching knees to carry him to one more win, the original ABB members now rely more on the supporting cast. That's not a bad thing. (If you like to hear electric guitar and have never seen Derek Trucks and Warren Haynes share a stage, do yourself a favor.) It seems like Gregg hands a couple more songs a show off to Warren on vocals these days and sits out the instrumentals more. Jaimone is looking a little frail (though I hear his playing past 2:00 a.m. at the post-show party this night was anything but), and I hear Butch Trucks's shoulder is going out on him. Derek and Warren are the focus now, as they should be. Still, this is a band I would rank in my top 5 to see live, on the merits.  


The March 17 Beacon show was a case in point. For a scholar of the genre, the recorded Bill Graham introduction was a goosebumps moment. Coupled with the 40th anniversary of the release of Eat a Peach, it gave the night historical context. Keeping with the theme was a rare "Midnight Rider" opener. (This is the first ABB song that I remember associating with the band. I think it was on a beer commercial that ran about '89; hot girl walking into a dusty bar in the middle of the desert and throwing a coin in the jukebox.) The song is not a platform for extended solos, so it's not on my shortlist for a modern ABB set. On this Saturday night, it worked perfectly as an opener. If there was a 16 oz Stella in the house below shoulder level by the end of the first chorus, I didn't see it. 


Things then got hot. Early. "Trouble No More" is a perfect example of a classic that Derek Trucks has set afire. His completely atypical no-pick cackling demon slide style is perfect for "Trouble," and my jaw was firmly clenched by the end. Before he launches into the solo on this one, you can just hear his SG straining at its reins. It's strong sauce. 


I'd been watching the setlists and knew that the now-patented "I Walk on Guilded Splinters" (Dr. John, believe it or not) was a possibility. Bingo. I can't think of a better example of the band taking a deep-track cover, stamping it with a smoldering ABB brand, and setting it loose on the crowd. It's a thick-steak groove with a screeching roller coaster laid on top of it. I pulled out my phone with the intention of texting a friend: "Derek almost just burned this place to the ground on 'Guilded,'" but I was too excited to type. This is when the fleece came off. Here's the intro (sorry for the abbreviate version, this is long as I could hold my cell phone steady before my Swerve On):

There was no rest for the weary. Having been relatively "quiet," by Guitar legend standards thus far, Warren Haynes took over for the slow Elmore James twelve-bar classic, "The Sky is Crying." Warren's style is powerful, but more precise and in the classical blues vein than Derek's. Warren's body may have been born in Asheville, but his soul was born on the Delta. Like Garcia (albeit with a harder edge), the man can play everything more competently than 99.5% of the world's guitarists can play anything. There's not a song he's afraid to tackle (as we saw later), but old, dirty Blues is right in his wheelhouse. Rock has no more honest, hardworking ambassador than Warren Haynes. He is the standing Godfather of what we call "jam." 


From there, the set stayed on the slow end of the metronome, with the very-new "Egypt" and an unexceptional version of the slow jazzy "Desdemona" that put everyone in their seats for the first time of the night. (Not because anyone was bored; it's just a sign of a 30-60 year old crowd.) The Willie Dixon/Muddy Waters standard, "Hoochie Coochie Man" offered what could have been a set-closing high point. On this night, they gave it a slow tempo intro (think "Mannish Boy" slow) that spilled a little awkwardly into their more traditional arrangement. I thought it fell a little flat. Historical sidenote: The band will never play a better version of this song than the 7/3/70 Atlanta International Pop Festival version.   


A new evolution at the Beacon this year is an acoustic mini-set after the break. The run is always known for eclectic and rare covers (e.g., starting this year with an interpretation of Rogers & Hammerstein's "A Few of My Favorite Things") and big ticket guest appearances. While Randall Bramblett (sax) and Bruce Katz (keys) contributed to the first set, coming out of the break, we were due for a big-time cover. Warren and Gregg took the stage for a mellow version of Jackson Browne's "These Days" (previously unknown to me). A bit of precussion was added for "The Dark End of the Street" (most popular as performed by the Flying Burrito Brothers/Graham Parsons). All in all, a slow start. In hindsight, they were saving up. History followed.


Darkness fell on the stage post-"Dark End." With the lights came the ethereal presence of  Grace Potter. After introductions, the band moved patiently into a mystifying cover of Fleetwood Mack's "Golddust Woman." ("Did she make you cry, make you break down, shatter your illusions of love!?") I've always been a Fleetwood basher. Nevermore. Beyond giving Fleetwood a measure of credibility in my mind, the eight minutes that followed left no doubt that Grace Potter is a Presence. This was a Moment she'd obviously waited for,  and she knocked it out of the park. If the crowd seemed quiet, it's because most of them were staring at her, mouth agape, enchanted as she moved around the stage like a hippie shaman in a trance. It was unforgettable. 


I noticed Warren screaming commands at the band towards the end of "Golddust" and Grace stayed on the stage. Anticipation. Once the electric instruments were handed back out, the band launched into screaming version of Neil Young's "Southern Man." Yes! Yes! "Waaaaareeeeeeeeennnnnnnnn!!!!!" Everybody loves Neil. (If your notion of him is that of a South basher warring with Ronnie Van Sant over her honor, hear the Drive By Truckers' side of this. It's not that simple.) Going back to our theme of juxtaposition, hearing the Long Islanders standing next to us (the guy to Cress's left had on skinny-leg acid wash jeans with '89 vintage black Reebok high tops and a mane of silver hair straight out of Wayne's World; you can't make this up; no, he wasn't trying to be funny) scream the lyrics while listening to Southern legends play an ornate theater on Broadway was apropos. It was an invigorating 12 minutes, frozen in time for me. 
   
Historical sidenote: What you see in that video is the first time in the 40 year plus history of the Allman Brothers Band that a song has been played on a stage with zero members of the original band present.


Once a venue is as overheated as the Beacon was after "Southern Man," the next step is always hard. The air really didn't get back in the sail until later in the set when they brought bassist Oteil Burbridge up for Hendrix's "Manic Depression." 


For the helpless Jerry fans in the audience (me included), an up-tempo version of Little Milton's R&B thumper "That's What Love Will Make You Do" was the late-show highlight. The peak saw Trucks, Haynes, jazz guitarist Jeff Acheson, and Bramblett repeatedly passing solos down a line like a possessed IBM Selectric.  


The recently revived "Jessica" brought the second set to a rousing close. Gregg reminded the audience that he could still blow on a clipped "One Way Out" encore (too short for encore duty IMO), and up came the lights. With smiles on our faces and ringing in our ears, Cress and I took the long walk back down Broadway in the brisk night air.   


I want to say a special thanks to John Lyndon for putting the night together. For years now, he has devoted hours and hours of his time and lent his (deep) connections to the band to make as many tickets as he can available to anyone who expresses a desire to go. If only I knew the number of smiles that he's created in the process. Thanks, John. 

J. Roddy - SOTW - March 10, 2012

"It's like Jerry Lee Lewis backed by Lynyrd Skynard!"

That was my friend Derek's observation two songs into an entertaining set by J. Roddy Walston & the Business at the Fabulous 40 Watt last week. While the front man of this four piece shuffle boogie powerhouse may not have The Killer's vocal or piano chops, he has the same type of contagious manic enthusiasm. If your looking for comparisons, I'd say the band is more Marc Ford era Black Crowes rhythm section and guitar with a biker-hippiefied Ben Folds on the keys (throw in a twist of MMJ just for flavor). The general style of the songs is what you'd expect from a piano heavy modern jam unit with heavy Jerry Lee musical influence; soulful intros that build into SG whirlwhind solos.

On a flat pre spring break Tuesday night, a lesser showman would've been content to put his first 40 Watt headlining slot in the books and move onto the next stop. Sensing an interested but not 100% engaged audience, J. Roddy refused to quit flailing his piano and exhorting the crowd until he had PBR tall boys (and my High Life) in the air. Any band (or person for that matter) is well-served by hard work and intense devotion to what they do. It makes you want to like them. For all their frenetic energy, these guys are intensely focused on their Mission, and it's effective.

I've given the self-titled debut album several listens and, once you adjust your ears, it's quality top to bottom. The new material the band rolled out on Tuesday had similar promise on first listen. Keep your ear on these guys. They seem like a band with the work ethic and repertoire to leave a mark. Your SOTW for March 10, 2012 is their A list show stopper and spiraling rocker, "Brave Man's Dead."    

In other news, your faithful Editor heads off to the Big Apple next week with my Bride to satisfy a decade-long desire to catch the Allman Brothers Band at the Beacon Theater. I suspect I'll find the inspiration and time for a special Empire City edition of Early Evening. Have a great weekend and enjoy this weather!

P.S., SOTW Bonus Beer compliments of Early Evening for the first person who comments with the source of the drum intro on the song linked in the first sentence! Payable the next time I see you. This is an easy one. 

"Late Night" - SOTW - March 2, 2012

When you leave your last bar of the night, you are either going home to crash or you aren't. During your 20's, on those golden nights that never end, "last call!" was like a conductor tapping his baton for the Main Act to begin. (On the extremely rare occasion when I hear it these days, its more like a cry of mercy). The question then became, "what are y'all doing late night?" Not that time mattered, but "late night" ran from around 1:30 a.m. until approximately 4:00 a.m. (daybreak for the unfortunate). It most often involved a "party" at some unlucky soul's residence. Beverages were can beer and liquor drinks only. Even if there had been a keg at some point, it was gone before the revelers left for the bar hours earlier. The sub-activities depended on how depraved a group you were running with. One constant was noise ordinance shattering music played through overloaded speakers that someone's dad had purchased with a year-end bonus back in '78 and kicked down to the kids when he upgraded to Bose Accoustimass. To try and give "late night" any description from there becomes hard. It could involve anything from costumes and karaoke to property destruction.

Getting from the bar to "late night" typically involved a drive (by a hand picked designated driver, of course). The soundtrack for that shuttle was critical for setting the mood. That's why the "shotgun" call was so high stakes after 1:00 a.m. Given that the vehicle was often stuffed over capacity, it wasn't an easy call and drunk people aren't shy about advancing (lame) requests. That's why max volume was a necessity. In a car with predominantly women, something "fun" from the sorororock category worked best. In a car o' dudes, you'd usually choose something a bit more "angry." (Don't worry Zach, we'll give that one the full treatment later). The distance of the drive mattered. A swing from Buckhead to Virginia Highlands gave time for a something more "jammy." The shorter bar > late night haul necessitated something punchier. The ultimate late night short haul (with a longing nod to the Moondogs > Timm Valley Road gauntlet in Buckhead via Pharr Road) is the 2.4 miles of Lumpkin Street that lie between the old Gus Garcia's sector of downtown Athens and the little anonymous red brick house that sits on a curve on Westview Drive at the intersection of that street and ... Westview (a/k/a the most confusing intersection in Athens). That's where my friends Wes and Asa took up residence in the fall of 1997. It was the kind of gloriously decadent setting that would seem made up if it wasn't true. Minds were lost there and GPA's shattered. It's just a few hundred yards north of my home now. Every time I walk by it pushing one of my girls in the jogging stroller I just shake my head and thank Heaven that I'm alive.  

If last call at Tasty World came and went circa '98 and a Land Rover Discovery full of dudes poured out (not having managed to "hook up"), your Early Evening Song of the Week for March 2, 2012 was the ultimate soundtrack for the short haul back to Westview. Played at volume setting 32 (on a scale of 1 to 35 through a 400 watt sound system), this haunting quasi-literary flower power anthem is one that would have you staring out the windshield contemplating the Meaning of Life one second and pounding on the dashboard with exuberance the next. (Hearing it now, I can't help but imagine Hunter Thompson standing at the back of the Matrix Club in San Francisco in fall of '66 staring at Grace Slick and the "house band" work the kinks out of this song.) Here's to "late night's" past! Have a safe weekend, and get to bed early!