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Rubadub on Beacon 3.23-24.07

Josh covered 3.22.07, and how.

3.23.07 Set 1
Les Brers In A minor
Can't lose What You Never Had
Ain't Wastin Time
The Sky Is Crying
Who To Believe
Stand Back
The Weight w/ Susan Tedeschi and Jay Collins
Set 2
You Don't Love Me (/Soul Serenade)
Don't Keep Me Wondering
Manic Depression
Trouble No More
Walk On Gilded Splinters
Black Hearted Woman>
Other One Instrumental____
Preachin' Blues
Southbound w/Collins

3.24.07 set 1
STATESBORO BLUES
REVIVAL
LEAVE MY BLUES AT HOME
ROCKIN HORSE
SOULSHINE w/ Holloway on sax
HIGH COST OF LOW LIVING
ONE WAY OUT
Set 2
COME ON IN MY KITCHEN w/ Luther Dickinson-gtr
DREAMS w/ Holloway on Sax
IN MEMORY OF ELIZABETH REED>
DOUBLE BASS SOLO (DEREK AND OTEIL)>
MOUNTAIN JAM>
DAZED AND CONFUSED____
WHIPPING POST_______________

Apology upfront; your mileage may vary.
But three nights in the Electric Church have left me flummoxed;
if they can testify to these soaring new musics, we should find the words.
But we're like accountants, with green eyeshades,
struggling to count angels dancing on the head of a pin.
So forgive the hybrid that follows,
but the dictionary is too small, too black and white;
to do the experience justice,
we need to crosspollinate a few adjectives here,
blacklight some adverbs, put electrodes on the Muse's forehead,
and wrap her in tie-dye.
At the risk of confusing those who want the Beacon to serve
as merely a loud barroom with boogie blues to power the party;
more power to you, fine choice, but consider this;
the Brothers' current strange, beautiful blend is A Musical Highwater Mark, nothing less.
And if we told you this last year, well, evolution is real.
For fun, and to keep the faithful ones guessing,
on these three nights they don't "cover", no,
they INTERPRET and carry forward Miles Davis' In A Silent Way,
Hendrix's Crosstown Traffic, the Grateful Dead's Other One (instrumentally), and Zeppelin's Dazed and Confused;
but meanwhile in their own original music,
moss hanging from the haunted minor seventh and the ambiguous ninth,
Oteil pops a bass string in his solo, supported by 4 string bass by Derek, Oteil and Derek play drums, they chrome blues changes,
hotrod the blues with chromatic filigree and stop-time surprises
that uptown people call jazz;
and combine speed, power and paisley in a time-honored blend
that leaves the crowd in a smoking crater that used to be found, mostly,
in the Bay area.
To recap;
ABB music is blues music,
but no sharecropper sliding a bone along a diddley bow,
no lonesome slave plucking a wire stripped from a screen
and stretched between nails hammered in a board,
no Chicago bluesman sweating his suit in an E7 shuffle,
ever could have imagined
the Allman Brothers' quantum leap into the future.
Between March 1969, when a jam session here in Jacksonville Florida
flash-welded them together, instant permanent musical brothers,
and October 29, 1971, when Duane Allman launched into the mystic,
the Allman Brothers pioneered a shining, singular bridge
from blues to jazz. Live at Fillmore,
recorded in New York City March 12-13 and June 27, 1971, is exhibit A.
Textbook for a new music. More than a party.
No Blind Willie McTell, no Son House, no Robert Johnson, no Muddy Waters
(though he TOLD us the blues had a baby called rocknroll!),
could have dreamed the blues' silvery wings that would spread
when Duane's Coricidian bottle and Dickey Betts' hands
moved across singing string Gibsons plugged into Marshall amps,
bathed in liquid lightshow radiance, surrounded by telepathic Brothers
strong in the magic of their new language.
Those 2 1/2 years cast a long shadow
over the next thirty years of ABB music,
which smoldered and flashed,
but seemed to generate more smoke and heat than light.
Scandals, tabloids, substances, lineup changes lacking the explosive chemistry,only fleeting sparks of the old alchemy.
OK OK enough history babble;

Today's ABB is sober, fierce, and has multiple sets of rich repertoire,
a liquid light show, a road crew and soundstage that is flawless,
road-tested, and the same synchro-mesh musical syntax
that made the Fillmore East pulsate.
Take two drummers who have played together for 38 years,
four arms, four feet, one pulsing brain, half black, half white, all blues,
Butch Trucks powering the accents and attacks, framing the changes,
and Jaimoe (he's slowed down a bit, since last year)
ticking the slippery time and coloring the gaps;
add a percussionist, Marc Quinones, pedigreed with Santana,
pounding the transient pee out of the timbales,congas and splash cymbal,
punctuating the stringtalk of the guitarists, punching up the dynamics,
and laying out in the interludes,
take Oteil, who cradles that Fender bass and turns to the drums,
who overlays the fundamental blues tonic with Jaco Pastorius' popcorn chromatics, stroked chords,and harmonic bubbleblowing,
alternately laying it down ostinato so thick the foundation rumbles
and then slipping up the neck in flurries of piccolo-register counter melodies, before dropping back clean, smack-dab in the groove;
remember Gregg Allman, even slimmer and in strong pained voice,
whose B-3 sound is a thick sonic chuffy pillow that cushions all those percussive strings and drums, and who wrote more classic blues
than any other single white man who ever bled;
take musical director Warren Haynes who has the steely eyes of an assassin, who sweeps onstage with his sunburst Les Paul or natural 335 and counts it off, and nails every signature bend and signpost with authority,and then turns to square off with Derek Trucks,
whose clear spirit channels Duane's quicksilver slide voice,
floats on the shifting breeze of the peerless riddim section,
adds a pinch of Ali Akbar Khan, Marley, Trane, and fatback bacon,
To set the current stage; for the guitarsluts among you,
Derek is still in the center, with Oteil on his left hand,
and Warren on his right, next to Gregg.
Clapton has apparently instilled in Derek the importance of being LOUD;
Derek is standing in front of two Fender amps, 6 X 12" speakers each,
not his Supers anymore, maybe Super Sixes,
(hard to be sure since the silverface nameplates are stickered over with the names of his two children)
and still spanking his cherry 1961 SG reissue, nothing on the floor but a tuner and a cable;
Derek quickly pulls his plugs out of his ears as he gets ready to take a long solo, then plugs them again as the roars die down;
Warren is running his sunburst Les Paul and natural 335 thru Diaz and Soldano heads a Tone Tubby 4x12 cabinet,
and apparently an Ampex 15" speaker cabinet too.
A big Starbucks coffeee was on his amp,
and he was breathing fire every night.
Haynes’ classic phrasing accompanied by BB King-approved grimaces,
is met with Trucks’ sphinx-like focus on a spot on the storied wooden floor
just about five feet in front of him, yet so far, far away.
They take turns (because this is a Guitar Band) conjuring the levitation
that leads us to return, over and over, and to read rants like this;
Derek (wide, horizontal phrasing i.e. from nut to bridge, slow burns,
low hanging bumblebee notes giving way to swooping accelerations
emerging from low-E string ‘clouds’of sound,
then increasingly raspy, more frantic flurries of statements at the highest position, building to crescendo/diminuendo, ovation)
and Warren (positional, closer-interval, vertical phrasing
i.e. across the strings, trilled or fanned pedal tones against fanned bends,
more classic, searing, box-based ladder climbs to evil bends).
Both of them are blackbelts, with fingers of fire and ice.
And Quinones accents the changes
like the tattooed archangel of percussive explosives.
And Oteil and Butch building slippery fat bottomed changes
to elevate the community ass, thrilling twisty unison lines
and smeared bluenote clusters to spin the head,
and searing speaking strings to hold our breath for us.
Oteil’s faithful attention to the bottom did not prevent trips up the neck
to give a boost to the melody, he is still the pivot point,
the unwavering linchpin between the battering-ram drums and soaring strings, radiant and graceful,
poised to raise the roof with thrumming, doublejointed groove right when the guitarists achieve escape velocity.
This music is a mixture of Electric Church and Transportation.
Buy a ticket and get aboard to see some new frontier.
(no thesauri were injured in the writing of this review)
sincerely
Rubadub and The Hambone Sparklewell Quartet




Added:  Monday, March 26, 2007
Reviewer:  scott russell
Score:
hits: 3356

  

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Posted by jchasin on Mar 26, 2007 - 06:34 PM
Your rating:

I'm, like, WHOA! Sheer poetry, and on the money.

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