It's a love story as old as time. A smoke-filled dive bar, late at night. Packed and steamy hot. The din pulsates, warping the dimly-lit air. You can hear the juke box playing, the song indiscernible. Glasses and foreheads sweat. Things reach a crescendo. Romance abounds, floating, waiting to attach itself to two souls in (fleeting) communion.
A man walks in. There's a lady in a booth in the corner. Eyes meet, then meet again. Seconds pass. Then again. No coincidence. People begin filtering out to find the Night's conclusion. Not these two. A pitcher of drinks. Then another...
Daylight comes and birds chirp. No eye contact now. Only pleasureful shame. What the hell? They know the score. A love story as old as time, but a short one.
Loretta Lynn was 43 years years old when Jack White was born. Musically, several genres separate the Coal Miner's Daughter and The Pale Master. How and why they came to make music together, much less tell us a dazzling story of temporary lovers, I cannot explain. Such asymmetry in age, style, and experience can spell forced disaster; not here. Jack and Loretta are both too great for that. Plus, they really like each other. (Not how you are thinking.) This unlikeliest of musical unions - between a then 72 and a 28 year old- produced one of the great modern American albums, 2004's Van Lear Rose. If you grew up in the country, this crossover classic will carry you home, straight to Grandma's arms. It's sound evokes the wind rustling the old pecan trees out back on a hot July evening. Woven with themes of tradition ("This Old House", "High on a Mountaintop"), family ("Family Tree"), trial, and triumph (the title track), this was Americana before Americana was cool. It's essential material for any library and enrichment on a hot summer day.
The album's unforgettable track, and your Song of the Week for June 21, 2013, bucks the narrative arc of the album a bit and takes us back to our smoke-filled bar. The daydream haze of the intro segues into a gentle hook before blasting into the soaring highs of the main theme. Instead of the story of conquest and adventure that the music portrays, the listener is dropped into a little bar and a sloe gin fizz soaked story of one man, one woman, and an unforgettable night. "Portland, Oregon" is one big smile. "And a pitcher to go!"
"If my words did glow, with the gold of sunshine ..." I have a confession to make, and I want you all to Hear it. I love music. In so many ways, it has formed and informed my life. I owe it so much. Why not write about it?
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Thursday, May 9, 2013
SOTW - May 10, 2013 - Wayside
nos·tal·gia
[no-stal-juh, -jee-uh, nuh-]
noun
a wistful desire to return in thought or in fact to a former time in one's life . . . a sentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place or time.
Was it really so good "back then?" Does our memory place a sheen on the past that obscures the bad? Try or not, we humans constantly assimilate knowledge, understanding, and experience; how would those transpose onto a fondly-recalled past if we re-lived it? Were the Good Ol' Days really so blissful? I say "yes," but not for the reason you might think. It was no better then than it was now, only new. What is new and different is stimulating, and stimulation breeds joy. But, if we have our eyes open, if we are paying Attention, then we are always learning and seeing something new. It happens every day. The past may have been good, but it's the past. Nostalgia, which is longing for "back then" (or the feeling that the past is better than today), is counter-productive because it obscures the glory of the present.
Not that Gillian Welch agrees with any of this, at least not based on her dusty-box-in-the-attic classic (and your Song of the Week for May 10, 2013), "Wayside (Back in Time). This crackling campfire bit of mood folk represents the purest form of nostalgia; not only fond recollection, but the desire to actually go backwards in time. (All to get back to a drunk lover and an apparently unproductive relationship). Wistful and longing in theme, the song embraces the listener from the first soothing ripple of B-3 in the intro. Productive or not, if Gil' is selling nostalgia, I'm buying.
a wistful desire to return in thought or in fact to a former time in one's life . . . a sentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place or time.
Was it really so good "back then?" Does our memory place a sheen on the past that obscures the bad? Try or not, we humans constantly assimilate knowledge, understanding, and experience; how would those transpose onto a fondly-recalled past if we re-lived it? Were the Good Ol' Days really so blissful? I say "yes," but not for the reason you might think. It was no better then than it was now, only new. What is new and different is stimulating, and stimulation breeds joy. But, if we have our eyes open, if we are paying Attention, then we are always learning and seeing something new. It happens every day. The past may have been good, but it's the past. Nostalgia, which is longing for "back then" (or the feeling that the past is better than today), is counter-productive because it obscures the glory of the present.
Not that Gillian Welch agrees with any of this, at least not based on her dusty-box-in-the-attic classic (and your Song of the Week for May 10, 2013), "Wayside (Back in Time). This crackling campfire bit of mood folk represents the purest form of nostalgia; not only fond recollection, but the desire to actually go backwards in time. (All to get back to a drunk lover and an apparently unproductive relationship). Wistful and longing in theme, the song embraces the listener from the first soothing ripple of B-3 in the intro. Productive or not, if Gil' is selling nostalgia, I'm buying.
Friday, April 26, 2013
Album Review - The Futurebirds, Baba Yaga
Baba Yaga
The Futurebirds
Fat Possum RecordsReleased April 16, 2013
Making one excellent album is a daunting task for any band; pulling it off back-to-back takes rare skill. With each successive record, the task becomes exponentially more difficult, but you've got to get to second base before you can reach third. The Athens-based Futurebirds are early in the game, but two LP's in, so far, so very good.
Baba Yaga, the follow-up to 2010's Hampton's Lullaby, sees the 'Bird's shift their distinct brand of galactic alt country to a more mature and contemplative space. The grind of heavy time on the Road leaves a positive and weary mark. The move is more evolution than revolution, but it's a big step forward that was almost three years in the making. (The band had extended trouble finding the right label for their sophomore effort, eventually landing with the Oxford, Mississippi based Fat Possum label.) Growing up isn't an easy thing for a Rock Band, but the process starts here.
The beer-shower singalong choruses of Hamptons ("Yer Not Dead," "Sam Jones") are nearly absent, being exchanged for more nuanced instrumental crescendos. The tableau of Baba's is wide and thickly layered with sound, never noise. The production value is improved versus Hampton's. Dennis Love's soaring pedal steel flourishes weave themselves throughout and serve as the unifying thread in the band's sound. The other colors are more subdued. The six-string guitar work is more rhythmic than melodic, with few (unneeded) big ticket Rock solos. There is little space in the mix, but it never feels crowded. The lyrical themes have matured, with the listener finding less conquest and more contest. If Hampton's was an afternoon on the beach, Baba is a campfire on the sand under the stars.
All hands are on the songwriting deck, with guitarist Carter King carrying the bulk of the water. King's irresistible album high-point, "Tan Lines," builds on its rollicking pedal steel hook with a sex and sand lyrical theme that exudes longing and compromise. In the next breath, King has the listener pondering the un-ponderable while channeling Tennessee Fire era Jim James in the stare-and-sway "Death Awaits." When the tempo drops, a contemplative cosmic feel pervades, always propelled by Love's steel, e.g., the spiraling dreamscape of guitarist Daniel Womack's "Felix Helix" and low plains haze of multi-instrumentalist Thomas Johnson's "American Cowboy." Now-departed drummer (and Dead scholar) Payton Bradford evokes Gram Parsons while stumping the listener with a barrage of unanswered questions in the hoist-your-beer instant classic, "Keith and Donna." The subtle sound experimentation built into the album-closing "St. Summertime" (think Z era My Morning Jacket with a dash of Sky Blue Sky Wilco) gives a tantalizing hint at what could come next.
The album could stand to shed a few songs, but the excess material is neither superflous nor offensive. It's a compelling piece of work by a band staying faithful to its name. Stay tuned.
[Editor's Note: While you should absolutely buy a copy of the record and support these artists, you can preview Baba Yaga courtesy of Paste magazine here.]
Friday, April 12, 2013
SOTW - April 12, 2013 - Crowes in Spring
At some point, the rising flood of a river must give way to dry land. And so it was in the early 1990's that the The Black Crowes saved Rock and Roll.
By 1990, Hair Metal had subverted and perverted the Rock of the grand Stones tradition. The genre shifts ("Tommy") and historical fusion experiments (Let It Bleed) of the Golden Era had given way to an arms race to reach the most perfectly vapid party chorus ("Don't mean nothin', but a good time, how can I resist?!") draped with obnoxious wammy bar guitar antics ("Kickstart My Heart"). The only similarity between Hair Metal and the Golden Era was what went on backstage. The Motley Crues of the Hair world misread what their forbears told them; it wasn't all about the Party. Hair Metal garishly threatened to erase all of the musical gains made in the preceding 25 years. (Disclaimer 1: At the time, I loved Hair Metal. How could any teenager of the time not attach to it? It was pop and it was cool. Still, it was terrible music.)
Then, in 1991, the world shifted slightly on its axis. Nevermind. Ten. Grunge put Hair Metal quickly out of its misery. This was a flood that swept all in front of it musically. But, there was a problem. Like its uncle Punk, for all of its style and attitude, Grunge eschewed musicianship; its purveyors flaunted their lack of musical ability as an anti-Establishment bona fide. At least Hair Metal preserved the core element of the larger-than-life Rock Star. In the Grunge Era, to be a Star was a reason to kill oneself. It was the outright rejection of the time-honored link between Music and fame. Was anybody having fun? (Disclaimer 2: At the time, I loved Grunge. How could any teenager of the time not attach to it? It was pop and it was cool. Still, it was more an attitude and a style than a musical exposition.)
In this transitional malestrom, a lone candle burned. Ignoring the storm outside, two brothers from Marietta, Georgia looked backwards and drew inspiration from the Masters. Like the Beatles and Stones before them, Chris and Rich Robinson and their Black Crowes hitched their wagon to a few R&B standards, threw some of their own brand of Rock in the back, and rode straight out of Atlanta, GA to Glory. Who needed black plastic cod pieces? Corduroy bell bottoms were more comfortable. As their world embraced studded leather and then flannel, they showed up in velvet and round shades and took the place over. They were an enigma, but they had the chops to make it stick. The world soon took note.
1990's Shake Your Money Maker staked a definitive piece of Classic Rock turf in what was still a Hair world. It was like Keith Richards had called his hippie nephews, sent them a box of old Blues albums, and told them to go and reclaim the family turf from those who were desecrating it. We all know "Hard to Handle" and "She Talks to Angels," but the blistering piano boogie of "Jealous Again" (thanks, Chuck Leavell) and coming-of-age Soul shot of "Seeing Things" showed that the Crowes believed history's lessons. To hear the album now is to marvel at its concept relative to the norms of the day. Three million people agreed. It was the first CD I ever owned, and I still remember the cardboard longbox sitting under the family Christmas tree in 1990 right next to my first Sony Discman.
By September of 1992, Grunge ruled the world, with the exception of the Crowes, that is. Rejecting the self-absorption and depression of Grunge, they doubled down on their good times brand of Rock and lit a post-hippie fire that gave the burgeoning "jam" scene pop credibility. From some genius corner of their smoke-fogged minds, they reached far back into history and borrowed the greatest album title your writer ever heard from the title of an old hymnal: The Southern Harmony and Musical Companion. They then attached to said title a masterful collection of Southern Fried Country Honk Brit Rock that fit the 1992 Georgia Coastal Plain like a custom glove. (Grunge never quite sounded right whilst camping at Reeves' Landing next to the Flint River; The Southern Harmony left our 17 year-old minds no doubt as to where its loyalties laid.) Bare feet became more common in my peer group and "dude" re-entered the vernacular after Southern Harmony landed at the old Music Mart on 16th Avenue.
Money Maker producer George Drakoulious and engineer Brendan O'Brien assembled the album with an unpolished two-channel sound that evokes the days when blues masters could not afford multiple takes and everything was recorded live-in-studio. The soaring B-3 river flow of "Thorn in My Pride" and the impossibly punchy roadhouse Gospel of "Remedy" are the albums finest songs, but your Song of the Week for April 12, 2013 is a deep track slide scorcher that serves as a late album peak before the mellow departure of Bob Marley's "Time Will Tell." The jet-powered opening riff and verse chorus of "My Morning Song" give way to a spacey bridge that slowly soars right back into the chorus's grabbing directive: "Kiss me baby, on Easter Sunday day. Make my haze blow away!"
. . . And so the grand tradition of Rock was preserved and the torch passed on to a new generation (enter everyone from the Kings of Leon to the Drive By Truckers). It remained cool to be Southern and chill and deferential to those that came before, while still reserving the right to kick open the door and declare the place yours.
By 1990, Hair Metal had subverted and perverted the Rock of the grand Stones tradition. The genre shifts ("Tommy") and historical fusion experiments (Let It Bleed) of the Golden Era had given way to an arms race to reach the most perfectly vapid party chorus ("Don't mean nothin', but a good time, how can I resist?!") draped with obnoxious wammy bar guitar antics ("Kickstart My Heart"). The only similarity between Hair Metal and the Golden Era was what went on backstage. The Motley Crues of the Hair world misread what their forbears told them; it wasn't all about the Party. Hair Metal garishly threatened to erase all of the musical gains made in the preceding 25 years. (Disclaimer 1: At the time, I loved Hair Metal. How could any teenager of the time not attach to it? It was pop and it was cool. Still, it was terrible music.)
Then, in 1991, the world shifted slightly on its axis. Nevermind. Ten. Grunge put Hair Metal quickly out of its misery. This was a flood that swept all in front of it musically. But, there was a problem. Like its uncle Punk, for all of its style and attitude, Grunge eschewed musicianship; its purveyors flaunted their lack of musical ability as an anti-Establishment bona fide. At least Hair Metal preserved the core element of the larger-than-life Rock Star. In the Grunge Era, to be a Star was a reason to kill oneself. It was the outright rejection of the time-honored link between Music and fame. Was anybody having fun? (Disclaimer 2: At the time, I loved Grunge. How could any teenager of the time not attach to it? It was pop and it was cool. Still, it was more an attitude and a style than a musical exposition.)
In this transitional malestrom, a lone candle burned. Ignoring the storm outside, two brothers from Marietta, Georgia looked backwards and drew inspiration from the Masters. Like the Beatles and Stones before them, Chris and Rich Robinson and their Black Crowes hitched their wagon to a few R&B standards, threw some of their own brand of Rock in the back, and rode straight out of Atlanta, GA to Glory. Who needed black plastic cod pieces? Corduroy bell bottoms were more comfortable. As their world embraced studded leather and then flannel, they showed up in velvet and round shades and took the place over. They were an enigma, but they had the chops to make it stick. The world soon took note.
1990's Shake Your Money Maker staked a definitive piece of Classic Rock turf in what was still a Hair world. It was like Keith Richards had called his hippie nephews, sent them a box of old Blues albums, and told them to go and reclaim the family turf from those who were desecrating it. We all know "Hard to Handle" and "She Talks to Angels," but the blistering piano boogie of "Jealous Again" (thanks, Chuck Leavell) and coming-of-age Soul shot of "Seeing Things" showed that the Crowes believed history's lessons. To hear the album now is to marvel at its concept relative to the norms of the day. Three million people agreed. It was the first CD I ever owned, and I still remember the cardboard longbox sitting under the family Christmas tree in 1990 right next to my first Sony Discman.
By September of 1992, Grunge ruled the world, with the exception of the Crowes, that is. Rejecting the self-absorption and depression of Grunge, they doubled down on their good times brand of Rock and lit a post-hippie fire that gave the burgeoning "jam" scene pop credibility. From some genius corner of their smoke-fogged minds, they reached far back into history and borrowed the greatest album title your writer ever heard from the title of an old hymnal: The Southern Harmony and Musical Companion. They then attached to said title a masterful collection of Southern Fried Country Honk Brit Rock that fit the 1992 Georgia Coastal Plain like a custom glove. (Grunge never quite sounded right whilst camping at Reeves' Landing next to the Flint River; The Southern Harmony left our 17 year-old minds no doubt as to where its loyalties laid.) Bare feet became more common in my peer group and "dude" re-entered the vernacular after Southern Harmony landed at the old Music Mart on 16th Avenue.
Money Maker producer George Drakoulious and engineer Brendan O'Brien assembled the album with an unpolished two-channel sound that evokes the days when blues masters could not afford multiple takes and everything was recorded live-in-studio. The soaring B-3 river flow of "Thorn in My Pride" and the impossibly punchy roadhouse Gospel of "Remedy" are the albums finest songs, but your Song of the Week for April 12, 2013 is a deep track slide scorcher that serves as a late album peak before the mellow departure of Bob Marley's "Time Will Tell." The jet-powered opening riff and verse chorus of "My Morning Song" give way to a spacey bridge that slowly soars right back into the chorus's grabbing directive: "Kiss me baby, on Easter Sunday day. Make my haze blow away!"
. . . And so the grand tradition of Rock was preserved and the torch passed on to a new generation (enter everyone from the Kings of Leon to the Drive By Truckers). It remained cool to be Southern and chill and deferential to those that came before, while still reserving the right to kick open the door and declare the place yours.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
SOTW - April 6, 2013 (A Mad World)
[Editor's note: Sometime today, Early Evening will celebrate page view number 5,000. For those four or five of you who actually care enough about what I write to look at it 1,000 times, thanks! Seriously, I deeply appreciate all of you who've taken the time to read this blog. It's been a blast!]
When this glorious spring weekend nears its end, when the referees' whistles are silent and the Sunday sun has set, the nation will turn its eyes to the television and the greatest show there is (and ever has been, in your writer's opinion). Set in the metro grit of 1960's New York, AMC's Mad Men is brilliant for not only the way it looks, but even more for what it says. This tale of high-powered advertising executives and those that are affected by their world of ego and ambition forces the viewer to confront both yin and yang: faithfulness and betrayal; empathy and indifference; brutal honesty and naked pretense; tolerance and prejudice; tireless devotion and flip laziness; courage and cowardice; genius and plagiarism. These recurring themes of the human experience are all found here in dense and often disturbing 60-minute doses. Anyone who refuses to consider them must reach for the remote. The revolutionary style of the show is always there, but it's more garnishment than entree. It should go without saying that I love Mad Men and think it's the kind of intelligent entertainment the world needs more of.
Since our theme this weekend is brilliance set in 1960's New York, let's turn to a real world example of just that. The Velvet Underground were nothing if not brilliant. Drawing their energy from the same trash-littered sidewalks that Don Draper & Co. traverse in the show, the Velvets shifted from the dark to the light as their career progressed and pop success became more of a goal (they never found it). The VU's Warhol-led ascendancy tracked the same late 1960's period that we expect to see in this season of Mad Men, so we can consider this a period study of sorts. Your Song of the Week for April 6, 2013 is a VU masterpiece and one of the under-appreciated anthems of American music. It is easy to visualize Jack the banker, Jane the clerk, and the song's narrator standing on the same corner with Draper as he tugs on a Lucky Strike and stares off into space searching for some unanswerable. May your cup be filled this weekend.
When this glorious spring weekend nears its end, when the referees' whistles are silent and the Sunday sun has set, the nation will turn its eyes to the television and the greatest show there is (and ever has been, in your writer's opinion). Set in the metro grit of 1960's New York, AMC's Mad Men is brilliant for not only the way it looks, but even more for what it says. This tale of high-powered advertising executives and those that are affected by their world of ego and ambition forces the viewer to confront both yin and yang: faithfulness and betrayal; empathy and indifference; brutal honesty and naked pretense; tolerance and prejudice; tireless devotion and flip laziness; courage and cowardice; genius and plagiarism. These recurring themes of the human experience are all found here in dense and often disturbing 60-minute doses. Anyone who refuses to consider them must reach for the remote. The revolutionary style of the show is always there, but it's more garnishment than entree. It should go without saying that I love Mad Men and think it's the kind of intelligent entertainment the world needs more of.
Since our theme this weekend is brilliance set in 1960's New York, let's turn to a real world example of just that. The Velvet Underground were nothing if not brilliant. Drawing their energy from the same trash-littered sidewalks that Don Draper & Co. traverse in the show, the Velvets shifted from the dark to the light as their career progressed and pop success became more of a goal (they never found it). The VU's Warhol-led ascendancy tracked the same late 1960's period that we expect to see in this season of Mad Men, so we can consider this a period study of sorts. Your Song of the Week for April 6, 2013 is a VU masterpiece and one of the under-appreciated anthems of American music. It is easy to visualize Jack the banker, Jane the clerk, and the song's narrator standing on the same corner with Draper as he tugs on a Lucky Strike and stares off into space searching for some unanswerable. May your cup be filled this weekend.
Friday, March 8, 2013
SOTW - March 8, 2013
Legend's Legend Neil Young blazed trails in the stars in the 1970's. Beginning with the 1969 Crazy Horse debut, Everybody Knows This is Nowhere, and culminating with 1979's Rust Never Sleeps, Neil reeled off a nigh uninterrupted run of epic recordings that saw him wielding sledgehammers (Everybody Knows), delicate chisels (1972's dreamscape album-for-the-ages, Harvest) and searing hot branding irons (1975's recorded-in-a-day pain-riddled Rock cautionary note, Tonight's the Night). These albums represent a raw, unfiltered rejection of virtuosity in favor of earnestness. Rolling Stone's 500 Greatest Albums of All Time is littered with material from Neil's hot streak.
Your Song of the Week for March 8, 2013, "Powderfinger," is classic 1970's Neil; vivid imagery welded to an Everyman 1/4 rhythm structure (with minor key flourish) and overlaid with lead work that is gripping in its simplicity. One quality of Neil's music is that it moves the listener to believe he can be both poet and guitarist; here's a prime example. Neil only gave us "Powderfinger" live, supplementing its access-ability. In 5 and 1/2 minutes, your SOTW will put you deeply inside the head of an unfortunate, confused, yet inherently brave 22 year-old left behind to defend a town on an unnamed river Somewhere against a menacing, unknown foe for reasons that only Neil knows. You can feel the conflicting thoughts of youth and manhood running through the narrator's head as the main riff drives us repeatedly towards a tragic conclusion told by one of my favorite verses in any song:
Shelter me, from the powder and the finger.
Cover me with the thought that pulled the trigger.
Think of me, as one you'd never figure,
Would fade away so young,
With so much left undone,
Remember me to my love,
I know I'll miss her.
Your Song of the Week for March 8, 2013, "Powderfinger," is classic 1970's Neil; vivid imagery welded to an Everyman 1/4 rhythm structure (with minor key flourish) and overlaid with lead work that is gripping in its simplicity. One quality of Neil's music is that it moves the listener to believe he can be both poet and guitarist; here's a prime example. Neil only gave us "Powderfinger" live, supplementing its access-ability. In 5 and 1/2 minutes, your SOTW will put you deeply inside the head of an unfortunate, confused, yet inherently brave 22 year-old left behind to defend a town on an unnamed river Somewhere against a menacing, unknown foe for reasons that only Neil knows. You can feel the conflicting thoughts of youth and manhood running through the narrator's head as the main riff drives us repeatedly towards a tragic conclusion told by one of my favorite verses in any song:
Shelter me, from the powder and the finger.
Cover me with the thought that pulled the trigger.
Think of me, as one you'd never figure,
Would fade away so young,
With so much left undone,
Remember me to my love,
I know I'll miss her.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
One Spring Friday in Huntsville (In Unison)
Widespread Panic is the most honest band I've ever heard. They have no pretense, no fabrication, no costume, no cause. You won't find a less rock and roll Rock and Roll band. You also won't find a band that has delivered more quality live performance more consistently over a longer period of time. (Yes, the Dead were the Greatest of the Great at their peak, but compare a '72 Europe show to an '89 stadium gig and tell me if you hear a difference. Then, go to www.panicstream.com and listen to one of last weeks shows at Punta Cana, and let me know if you hear an aging band fading towards a sad end. I don't.) Panic's musical creed is captured in a single line from "Driving Song": "An honest tune with a lingering lead has taken me this far." Perhaps that's why they've been making music together for 27 years this week. For Georgians and those with any connection to Athens in particular, they are the home team, the local boys who held onto a Dream and rode it to fruition while never forgetting from whence they came. They've always been just popular enough to sustain success without shouldering the burden of pop notoriety.
I've seen Widespread live on maybe 40 occasions, everywhere from a minor league baseball stadium in Charleston to the shores of the San Francisco Bay. To call these times great doesn't begin to do them justice. They were formative experiences of my young life, and then some. (More on that later, particularly a little amphitheater nestled on a hillside in central Alabama.) Cooking pancakes for the family this morning and re-studying the band's 1991 eponymous LP (a/k/a "Mom's Kitchen" or "the green CD"), I was reminded of one of my favorite lines in the vast Panic lexicon. If you love a band, then you have your favorite lyrics. People who love the same band tend to share fondness for the same lyrics. Such is the case with Widespread Panic fans, as exemplified on a balmy Friday ten years past.
April 27, 2001 found the group of marvelous souls affectionately referred to as "Team Panic" (your writer included) at the unlikely destination of the Von Braun Civic Center in Huntsville, Alabama. There is precisely one thing that could take that group to that spot on that day: a Widepsread Panic show. It was to be a weekend run, with the Huntsville show on a Friday and a Saturday performance to follow just up the road in Murfreesboro, Tennessee (another story altogether, for another day). Those members of Team Panic that were available for duty set sail from Atlanta shortly after lunch on what was a warm spring Friday and drove towards north central Alabama in no particular hurry - windows down, sunglasses on, bootlegs blaring, inter-vehicle rolling groove offs - a max chill Road Trip of unforgettable variety. "And the road goes on forever."
I don't know whether it is coincidence, but with the exception of the traditional Philips Arena NYE run, Widespread always seems to choose venues near grass fields. Grass fields are convenient and pleasant places to throw frisbees, drink beer, and generally tailgate in the setting afternoon soon. This was the case that Friday in Huntsville. It was like first day of summer camp, but for young adults. As a fully- engaged parent and professional, it's hard to internally recreate the liberated feeling of standing around in flip flops, shorts, and T-shirts, slightly sunburned with a small backpack of stuff for an entire weekend; no worries or agenda in the world but making sure we started traversing the distance between our field and the venue so as not to miss the opener. The only stress the situation presented was figuring out which song I would pick for the traditional Round of Beer Pick the Opener Derby. (That contest required rigorous pre-departure study of the previous 3 nights setlists; Panic never plays the same song more than once every three shows there was no mobile web then for pre-kickoff study. I almost always went for "Surprise Valley" if it was out there and won only once that I recall under "blind squirrel gets a nut" circumstances.)
April 27, 2001 was one of those nights when one doesn't walk around so much as he Floats. Time and space become more fluid and the Moment is paramount; the Plan is whatever will lead to increased happiness during the next 30 minutes and the time beyond that is irrelevant. Action takes priority over consequence. Anyone who does not share the common goal or expresses an individual agenda is quickly discarded as a "buzzkill." It's a very circumstantial feeling that can only be experienced during that interval of life before one bears the Weight of Great Responsibility. Nights like that Change you just a little; for the better, I think.
I well remember standing deep in the dark belly of the Von Braun arena on the floor not 100 feet from our heroes as anticipation gave way to motion (in the form of "noodling") during the First Set. Any show that started with "Disco" (my personal favorite version here) and contained a first-set cover of Robert Johnson's legendary "Stop Breaking Down Blues" was all right with me. Then, came the highlight of a highlight night, a single line belted in unison by 10,000 souls illuminated by cigarette lighters who, for three hours out of the history of the World, were the greatest of friends. As a lyricist, John Bell never sought philosophical precision. Once again, there is no central message. Panic's lyrics allow the listener to transpose his thoughts, feelings, and experiences into the song on his own terms. Such is the case with this sacred chestnut:
Ain't Life Grand?
[Author's note: For those of you where were there or care, to hear the 4/27/01 version of "I'm Not Alone," click here and enjoy what was an excellent show through track 7.]
I've seen Widespread live on maybe 40 occasions, everywhere from a minor league baseball stadium in Charleston to the shores of the San Francisco Bay. To call these times great doesn't begin to do them justice. They were formative experiences of my young life, and then some. (More on that later, particularly a little amphitheater nestled on a hillside in central Alabama.) Cooking pancakes for the family this morning and re-studying the band's 1991 eponymous LP (a/k/a "Mom's Kitchen" or "the green CD"), I was reminded of one of my favorite lines in the vast Panic lexicon. If you love a band, then you have your favorite lyrics. People who love the same band tend to share fondness for the same lyrics. Such is the case with Widespread Panic fans, as exemplified on a balmy Friday ten years past.
April 27, 2001 found the group of marvelous souls affectionately referred to as "Team Panic" (your writer included) at the unlikely destination of the Von Braun Civic Center in Huntsville, Alabama. There is precisely one thing that could take that group to that spot on that day: a Widepsread Panic show. It was to be a weekend run, with the Huntsville show on a Friday and a Saturday performance to follow just up the road in Murfreesboro, Tennessee (another story altogether, for another day). Those members of Team Panic that were available for duty set sail from Atlanta shortly after lunch on what was a warm spring Friday and drove towards north central Alabama in no particular hurry - windows down, sunglasses on, bootlegs blaring, inter-vehicle rolling groove offs - a max chill Road Trip of unforgettable variety. "And the road goes on forever."
I don't know whether it is coincidence, but with the exception of the traditional Philips Arena NYE run, Widespread always seems to choose venues near grass fields. Grass fields are convenient and pleasant places to throw frisbees, drink beer, and generally tailgate in the setting afternoon soon. This was the case that Friday in Huntsville. It was like first day of summer camp, but for young adults. As a fully- engaged parent and professional, it's hard to internally recreate the liberated feeling of standing around in flip flops, shorts, and T-shirts, slightly sunburned with a small backpack of stuff for an entire weekend; no worries or agenda in the world but making sure we started traversing the distance between our field and the venue so as not to miss the opener. The only stress the situation presented was figuring out which song I would pick for the traditional Round of Beer Pick the Opener Derby. (That contest required rigorous pre-departure study of the previous 3 nights setlists; Panic never plays the same song more than once every three shows there was no mobile web then for pre-kickoff study. I almost always went for "Surprise Valley" if it was out there and won only once that I recall under "blind squirrel gets a nut" circumstances.)
April 27, 2001 was one of those nights when one doesn't walk around so much as he Floats. Time and space become more fluid and the Moment is paramount; the Plan is whatever will lead to increased happiness during the next 30 minutes and the time beyond that is irrelevant. Action takes priority over consequence. Anyone who does not share the common goal or expresses an individual agenda is quickly discarded as a "buzzkill." It's a very circumstantial feeling that can only be experienced during that interval of life before one bears the Weight of Great Responsibility. Nights like that Change you just a little; for the better, I think.
I well remember standing deep in the dark belly of the Von Braun arena on the floor not 100 feet from our heroes as anticipation gave way to motion (in the form of "noodling") during the First Set. Any show that started with "Disco" (my personal favorite version here) and contained a first-set cover of Robert Johnson's legendary "Stop Breaking Down Blues" was all right with me. Then, came the highlight of a highlight night, a single line belted in unison by 10,000 souls illuminated by cigarette lighters who, for three hours out of the history of the World, were the greatest of friends. As a lyricist, John Bell never sought philosophical precision. Once again, there is no central message. Panic's lyrics allow the listener to transpose his thoughts, feelings, and experiences into the song on his own terms. Such is the case with this sacred chestnut:
First I thought of this,Thought of what? Turned to what? Why? What was frightening? Who is the "you?" Is it the person standing right next to you? The person you knew you'd see later? The person you hoped you'd see again someday? Or, was it all the persons surrounding you who'd chosen to share your Joy at this Time and Place? It's all whatever you want it to be. The answers mattered not on 4/27/01 in Huntsville, Alabama. Whatever meaning the people standing in that building gave those lines, the result was a unified, elated, clattering cheer. It was shared happiness par excellence. Hearing it all during that moment, I could only smile, look upwards, and shake my head ...
Then I turned to that,
And then I turned a little bit scared.
Well, I feel a little bit easier,
Knowing that you're all here.
Ain't Life Grand?
[Author's note: For those of you where were there or care, to hear the 4/27/01 version of "I'm Not Alone," click here and enjoy what was an excellent show through track 7.]
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