Here’s a re-post. See you soon…

In a rare moment of weakness, my brother admitted that his love of Latin music makes for a very lonely existence.

The same can be said of jazz. You just don’t stand around the water cooler on Monday morning talking about the latest Blue Note title remastered by the jazz label’s ace engineer, Rudy Van Gelder.

So while my brother searches for fellow latinophiles, I keep feeding the Blue Note beast – and I’m talking about the entire catalog, from the early boogie-woogie recordings of pianist Albert Ammons to the late-era funk of guitarist Grant Green. I even have a slide show on my iPod with my favorite Blue Note album covers, like this one…

…and this one…

…and this one…

Blue Note is still going strong, buoyed by the success of Norah Jones and the disposable income of Japanese collectors (a recent series of reissues included a “warm analog LP for the home sound system” with every CD). But the label’s glory years are clearly from the late-‘50s to the mid-‘60s. Art Blakey, Dexter Gordon, Wayne Shorter, Freddie Hubbard, Herbie Hancock, Hank Mobley… and maybe the most consistently satisfying artist on their roster, Horace Silver.

Even though I’ve been mining the Blue Note catalog for years, I keep coming across little gems that leave me wondering why some steely eyed jazz cop didn’t force me to sit down and listen to them.

I’ll share a couple I’ve come across recently. Lee Morgan is responsible for what may be the funkiest jazz solo of all time – from Moanin’ by Art Blakey and his Jazz Messengers. Morgan’s break has plenty of bite and sass; it’s also a testament to the strong blues influence that he shares with jazz legends like Sonny Rollins, Miles Davis, Dexter Gordon and John Coltrane. Moanin’

But I’d long been familiar with that number. I wasn’t aware of a tune that shows up some 10 years later in Morgan’s career, Caramba. Maybe I was misled by the goofy, overexposed cover photo – a departure from the stylish covers designed by the great Reid Miles. Might be the fact that Morgan’s recordings at that time were notoriously hit-and-miss. But Caramba’s got it all – a sunny, insistent groove… first-rate soloing from Morgan and Cedar Walton on piano… and cowbell (or at least the jazz equivalent)! What’s not to like?? Caramba

Grant Green is the most-recorded artist in Blue Note history, and you could build a whole blog around him alone. Although he made a name for himself playing straight-ahead jazz, he veered off into the land of funk later in his career — and that didn’t go over too well with jazz purists. But it’s hard to deny the heavy soul factor from this live date at Newark’s Cliche Lounge in 1970, featured on the album Alive!… Sookie Sookie

These last two expose the basic flaws of compilations or retrospectives. Sure, you’re getting a fine sampling of an artist’s career, but you’re also fooled into thinking that you’ve heard the best and don’t need the rest.

Then again, consider the even lonelier existence of the “jazz completist” – seeking out every release by, let’s say, Sonny Stitt, who put out more than 100 records on dozens of labels over four decades… On second thought, the “greatest hits” will do just fine.

After they put out three or four comprehensive box sets – the complete ‘60s recordings of Gordon and Hancock are treasures – Blue Note got smart and began issuing “retrospectives” (once you’ve got the complete set, there’s no reason to come back for more). The Horace Silver Retrospective is excellent, despite some wacky new-age fluff on the last disc.

But it kept me from fully exploring The Cape Verdean Blues – and Silver’s sense of drama and dynamics are especially strong on The African Queen (Bonita, also missing from the Retrospective, is top-shelf too)… The African Queen

Most casual listeners are familiar with Silver’s classic, Song for My Father. After all, Steely Dan appropriated it for the opening of their hit, Rikki Don’t Lose That Number… Song for My Father

But further down on the Rudy Van Gelder remaster of the same-titled CD (yes, the RVGs sound great) is a hidden gem – a trio recording of a tune that gets the full-band treatment earlier, Que Pasa. It’s deep stuff, springing from Silver’s Cape Verdean roots – and it makes the argument that the best jazz is based on the simplest riffs. Que Pasa

Check out more Blue Note goodness here.

More Blue Note covers… This one features an illustration by a young Andy Warhol…

Here’s a Lee Morgan title that created a rare jazz “hit” in 1965 — The Sidewinder…

A classic image — from 1958…

This last one is signature Reid Miles — perfectly cropped photo combined with stylized typography…

Latin boogaloo – one of those great cultural collisions, like fried chicken and waffles or Tiger Woods.

Rooted in Cuban son montuno and bastard stepchild of the Fifties mambo craze, boogaloo combined the driving rhythms of New York City’s Latin dance bands with the attitude and language of black R&B. And it couldn’t have happened anywhere else than in the clubs of New York, where Cubans, Puerto Ricans and African Americans were spending much of the Sixties rubbing shoulders and various other appendages on the city’s crowded dance floors. The best bands and DJs would keep them there by mixing it up, finding common musical threads that just about anyone could appreciate.

In the early ‘60s, you could catch Tito Puente, Machito and other Latin big bands at Manhattan clubs like the Palladium Ballroom, or dance along to DJs spinning the latest records by black artists like James Brown, the Shirelles and Jackie Wilson. And by 1966, these and other influences came together in boogaloo records by Joe Cuba, Pete Rodriguez, Joe Bataan, Willie Colon and the Lebron Brothers, to name a few.

Today, you can’t miss the sounds of Latin boogaloo in night clubs and neighborhood joints throughout the Rubber City. Actually, that last line is complete bullshit. I’m probably the only one in town who has a playlist called “We Got Latin Soul.” And most people in these parts are still a little touchy about records with the name Lebron on them.

To help give you a better sense of what boogaloo (also spelled “boogalu”) is all about, I decided to check in with another lonely Latinophile, Brother James:

“The boogaloo craze only lasted for a few years in the mid to late 60s. Some say it was killed by pressure on venues and booking agents from the salsa guys, many of whom despised it for its simplicity and non-Latin influences. These are some of the very reasons I like it. At its best, boogaloo is a joyous clash of cultures… an honest reaction by young Newyorkinos to the world they lived in. What could be wrong with that?”

Cuban bandleader Mongo Santamaria and fellow conguero Ray Barretto are often credited as originators of boogaloo – Santamaria with his popular version of the Herbie Hancock original Watermelon Man, and Barretto with his street-talkin’ hit El Watusi. Both songs were recorded in ’63, paving the way for the rise of boogaloo in the mid-‘60s. Santamaria’s tune grew out of a fortuitous late-night jam session at a Bronx club in ’62 when guest pianist Hancock, trying to keep things interesting during a slow night, showed Mongo’s band the changes to Watermelon Man. They jumped all over it, and a Latin hit was born: Watermelon Man

Joe Cuba

Early boogaloo hits like Joe Cuba’s Bang Bang and Pete Rodriguez’s I Like It Like That have a wonderfully casual feel to them, like someone ran the tape while the band was playing at an all-night house party. Apparently the kids got to stay up late too – they were needed to sing the chorus on this one: Bang Bang “When I recorded in those days I always left a big boom mike overhanging above all the musicians to put in a little live effect,” said Cuba (“From Bomba to Hip-Hop: Puerto Rican Culture and Latino Identity,” by Juan Flores). And the raucous vibe of these recordings was clearly an antidote to the heavily arranged and orchestrated sound of big-band mambo.

Like many other boogaloo artists, Cuba was born and bred in New York City (in his case, on 116^th Street in Spanish Harlem, where he lived until he passed away in 2009). He had little use for the more rural strains of Puerto Rican music, preferring the popular sounds of swing and R&B that young Latinos were seeking out in the clubs and record stores of Manhattan. So it was only natural for Cuba to write and perform songs in his native American tongue.

The R&B influence is especially clear in one of boogaloo’s biggest hits, I Like It Like That. Chris Kenner scored a hit back in ’61 with an original under the same name, a tune that was especially popular in Kenner’s home base of New Orleans. Rodriguez probably had that song in mind when he recorded his “tribute” some six years later – same title and refrain, different melody and groove. Just for fun, I ran the two songs together on this sample, with Kenner first and Rodriguez following: I Like It Like That (first Kenner, then Rodriguez)

Willie Bobo

A few boogaloo hits were guitar-driven, especially those that can be credited to the forward-thinking bandleader Willie Bobo (aka William Correa).

Bobo also grew up in Spanish Harlem, where he took lessons in Latin percussion from Santamaria. Then at the age of 19 he joined the blazing-hot band of Tito Puente – the king of the timbales – and never looked back. Bobo was a key figure in the mambo craze of the ‘50s, cutting some classic sides with Cal Tjader (Soul Sauce) and Santamaria (Para Ti) before starting his own band in 1963.

I love the way Clarence “Sonny” Henry’s guitar helps set the groove for Spanish Grease, one of my favorite boogaloo numbers. It obviously had a big influence on a young Carlos Santana, who borrowed the song’s refrain for his ’71 hit No One to Depend On: Spanish Grease

Santana’s great respect for Bobo was especially obvious during his band’s live concerts, when they would often throw in a fairly straightforward version of this next number. As you can tell by the title, even boogaloo artists who remained true to the Latin beat looked for every other opportunity to reference African-American culture: Fried Neck Bones and some Home Fries

Even jazzbos got in on the act, and the cultural references in this next number by Clark Terry and Chico O’Farrill are about as thick as you can get. I kept in the whole conversation – a tribute to the importance of interracial harmony and understanding: Spanish Rice

Hermanos Lebron

At this point, you’re probably still asking yourself, who the hell are the Lebron Brothers? In a nutshell: Five brothers of Puerto Rican descent… raised in Brooklyn… groomed for success by Latin music hit-maker George Goldner… recorded a boogaloo classic, “Psychedelic Goes Latin,” in 1967… and, like many Latino acts, got screwed by their manager. The group’s spokesman, Angel Lebron, claims they never got paid for their popular album: “Despite the propaganda that was printed then, the boogaloo bandleaders were the hottest bands at the time. The boogaloo era came to an end when we threatened to rebel…” (Flores). Thankfully, the Lebron Brothers made a successful transition to salsa in the ‘70s. Here’s a fine, funky number they cut in ’71 – sort of a boogaloo/salsa hybrid (with a meaty sax solo to boot): Boogaloo Lebron

By the early ‘70s, boogaloo had been pushed aside by the rise of salsa – mostly fueled by old-school Latino musicians like Eddie Palmieri (who still managed to cook up this Spanish-language boogaloo back in ‘68: Aye Que Rico) and Johnny Pacheco as well as the considerable clout of NYC-based Fania Records. Loose blues and soul-based riffs were replaced with more musically demanding arrangements that looked back at the Cuban tradition. And Sixties slogans like “sock it to me” gave way to Spanish-language musings on life in the barrio, including more overtly political songs by artists like Ruben Blades. In a way, salsa marked a return to the roots of Latin music. But in other aspects, it looked forward to disco – which is especially apparent in some of the highly polished (and often over-produced) records that Fania released in the Seventies: El Sabio/Hector Lavoe

Now I appreciate the sound of salsa as much as the next gaucho. But I’d never argue that the best salsa recordings are in some way superior to my favorite boogaloo songs from the Sixties. And on this key distinction, I’ll give the last word to the good folks at Hyp Records:

“The [boogaloo] trend met with fierce resistance in its heyday, but periodic revivals do occur. The old-guard defenders of ‘roots’ Spanish music are making their peace with it, and general collectors appreciate Latin soul as hip, early, cross-cultural pop – not to be shunned as either bogus Latin or bogus soul. A proud product of New York City, Latin soul reflects ‘the place to be’ in the 1960s and early 1970s.”

Watusi Boogaloo/Willie Rosario and his Orchestra

The Boogaloo sound continues to inspire contemporary acts like Miami’s Spam Allstars and Austin’s Grupo Fantasma. In this next video, the guys from GF turn a PBS telethon into a Latin funk festival:

Conway Twitty and Mamie Van Doren rockin' da house

No over-arching themes this week. No long-lost album to dissect. No need to dig up buried treasures from any given genre. And nothing about Mamie Van Doren, even though we use her glowing figure as a cheap ploy to get your attention (it worked!).

Let’s just spin the big wheel and see where it lands.

It might shock some of our loyal readers to find out I’m curious about a couple of brand-new projects.

The first is a new release by Greg Allman, produced by T Bone Burnett. In his prime, Allman ranked up there with some of the great voices of blues and soul – Ray Charles, Freddie King, Solomon Burke, Little Milton, Johnnie Taylor, Bobby Blue Bland… Granted, he’s not as awe-inspiring as he used to be. But if anyone can bring out the best in Allman, it’s probably Burnett. “Low Country Blues” is Allman’s first solo recording in 14 years, but probably one of about 20 projects that Burnett has taken on in the last week alone (OK, I exaggerate).

Since I couldn’t wait until today’s release date, I decided to fire up the interwebs to get a “First Listen” on NPR. And I warmed up to “Low Country” right away. First of all – and Sister Mary Ignatius, please excuse the double negative – Allman can’t not sing with soul. It’s just not in him to fake it. And I was especially drawn to songs on both ends of the spectrum – Allman accompanied by Colin Linden’s dobro on the intro to Skip James’ Devil Got My Woman: Devil Got My Woman and the full uptown blues treatment that Burnett gives Blind Man (with Dr. John on piano), a number made famous by Bobby Blue Bland: Blind Man No extended jams; no guitar histrionics. The emphasis is right where it needs to be – on the timeless sound of the man’s voice. I feel like I was raised on Allman, given all the summers I spent as a kid in Milledgeville, GA. He really needs to do a hell of a lot worse (another duet with Cher?) to disappoint me.

The second project is “Cure for Pain: The Mark Sandman Story” – a yet-to-be-released documentary of the indie rock icon from New England (directed by Robert Bralver and David Ferino). I’m far from well-versed on the recorded output of Sandman’s groundbreaking band Morphine, although I do have this little gem in my collection (recorded live on World Cafe): Candy I was more enamored with his previous band, Treat Her Right, which had all the elements I ever wanted in a modern blues-based combo (some of which made the transition to Morphine): cocktail drum kit, heavy bass, virtuoso harp player, nasty slide guitar, effortlessly soulful vocals (Sandman) and cinematic originals that convey a seriously bad attitude (also Sandman, reportedly inspired by pulp writers Jim Thompson and James Ellroy). Here’s one of my favorites: I Think She Likes Me

Sandman formed Morphine in ’89 with baritone sax player Dana Colley, and drummer Jerome Deupree eventually made it a trio (the band later became a quartet when Treat Her Right alumnus Billy Conway – the cocktail drum guy – joined up to accompany Deupree, who was dealing with some health issues). Sandman, who played a two-string bass guitar with a slide, coined the phrase “low rock” to describe the band. Hard to argue when you listen to this one: Buena But beyond the first-rate music, Sandman’s captivating life story should make “Cure for Pain” a tough one to miss. He was a college graduate who worked construction, drove a taxi and schlepped cod on a commercial fishing boat. He also dealt with the death of two brothers – not to mention being robbed and stabbed in his cab. And, like the late, great Johnny “Guitar” Watson, Sandman died doing what he loved best – he collapsed from a heart attack in the middle of a Morphine performance in Italy. Here’s a trailer for the upcoming movie:

Next up is a video sent in by Dan featuring Conway Twitty and the Lonely Blue Boys, circa 1967. Now, I don’t watch the TV show Family Guy, but I’ve heard they use footage from one of Twitty’s live performances as a running joke on the show. And that’s OK, because Conway Twitty the bloated countrypolitan star of the Seventies is a big old easy target: Hello Darlin’ But Twitty the hungry young artist is a different story altogether – and the tough little band he put together in the Sixties is a well-oiled honky tonk machine. Big Joe Louis on bass, Pork Chop Markham on drums, and Lew Houston on pedal steel.

These were the lean years, when Twitty was making the transition from rocker to full-blown Nashville star. I’m sure the Lonely Blue Boys had more than a few numbers like Working Girl on the setlist when they played shitty little dives in backwater towns across America and into Canada. Songs that made the girls shimmy just like Big Joe and the men wish they were as cool as Pork Chop, twirling his drumsticks like a badass at band camp (special thanks to the guys from Hacienda for turning me on to P.C.). And you can get away with this bare-bones lineup when you have a red-hot steel player like Houston handling all of the leads and accents:

Houston’s widow, Kitty, still performs today at Ingrid’s Kitchen, a German restaurant in Oklahoma City (she sings with Curly Cardinal’s band every Saturday from Noon til 2). And her web site includes a few random notes about the Sixties, when Kitty knew Twitty:

A young Kitty... mee-ow!

“‘Big Joe’ Louis was the ‘front man’ and picked the electric bass guitar, and sang tenor harmony with Conway. Pork Chop was one of the best drummers in rock or country music. After Big Joe died, Pork Chop became the front man for Conway… Lew was a fantastic steel guitar man. He could back any artist and play any song. Lew sang exactly like Jim Reeves and could imitate and sing like many other artist(s).” Conway went on to Nashville… his lifelong friend Big Joe died in a car wreck… Lew left… Pork Chop stayed… and Twitty began his long run of number one country hits – which is roughly about the point where I would’ve lost interest had I been aware of Twitty back then. Although I must say (and this is my last thought on the subject) my first band, The Warsaw Falcons, did a smokin’ version of the Twitty classic Lonely Blue Boy. Here’s the original: Lonely Blue Boy

Finally (whiplash warning), I was intrigued by a post on The Black Keys’ facebook page – a mashup (I hate that term) of the Keys’ “Brothers” album and Outkast rapper Big Boi’s solo effort “Sir Lucious Left Foot: The Son of Chico Dusty.” The perp? An artist who goes by the name Wick-it the Instigator. And while I’ll admit I’m not much of an expert on hip-hop (I’m a 54-year-old white guy, for chrissakes!), I have to admit this little act of digital thievery is pretty damn good. Keep in mind, this is how Danger Mouse got his start, slamming together the Beatles and Jay-Z. I’m guessing this guy is looking at a pretty bright and prosperous future: You Ain’t The Next DJ

Let’s revisit a couple of albums that had a big impact on yours truly, Brother James and Nephew Dan – basically, the vast majority of RCR’s global workforce.

Marc Ribot (pronounced ree-bow) is one of those wonderfully eclectic guitarists who can’t be pinned down by any simple category. Descriptions based on genres seem useless, since he’s dedicated most of his career to blurring the lines between them. With Ribot, I usually resort to adjectives – urgent, edgy, soulful, searching, honest…

He draws from a rich musical background – taught by Haitian classical guitarist and composer Frantz Casseus and schooled as a sideman for American icons including Chuck Berry, Wilson Pickett, Solomon Burke and Memphis’ first family of soul, Rufus and Carla Thomas. You can hear Ribot play fairly conventional chitlin’ circuit guitar on Burke’s classic album “Soul Alive!” (recorded live in D.C. in ’83), then defy virtually every convention on 2005’s “Spiritual Unity,” a tribute to free jazz pioneer Albert Ayler. Much like his old friend and musical soulmate, the late Robert Quine, Ribot is a restless spirit who always seems to raise the temperature of any project he embraces.

“Marc Ribot y Los Cubanos Postizos” was no exception. As the name suggests (prosthetic, or “fake,” Cubans), the project started out as a bit of a lark. But even though Ribot is often associated with New York City’s highly ironic downtown music scene, he’s probably incapable of playing anything that one could describe as jokey or insincere. In short order, the group’s eponymous debut (released in 1998 on Atlantic Records) became a heartfelt tribute to the great Cuban composer and tres player Arsenio Rodriguez.

The timing was right, given renewed interest in all things Cuban following the huge success of “Buena Vista Social Club,” which was released the previous year. But Ribot’s album seemed like the flip side to the Buena Vista coin – far less stately and mannered than Ry Cooder’s Grammy-winning project. One reviewer described Los Cubanos Postizos as Cuban music for the post-punk crowd. Although I don’t really buy that tag, Ribot’s band clearly approaches the Cuban tradition – and Rodriguez’s music in particular – with a far more visceral and contemporary sound than that heard in Buena Vista.

But first, a little background on the project’s inspiration, Rodriguez… Born in Cuba’s Matanzas Province, Rodriguez was blinded as a youth when a horse kicked him in the head. But that didn’t stop him from becoming a virtuoso on the tres and, eventually, one of Cuba’s most popular composers and bandleaders.

Street scene in the town of Julio Reyes, Matanzas Province (photo by James Quine).

You could argue that Rodriguez was one of the great genre-benders of all time, combining traditional Cuban music and African rhythms to create the son montuno – the backbone of modern Latin music. Consider that the driving rhythms of son begat mambo which begat salsa and all the related forms that followed, and you start to get a sense of what many contemporary Latin artists owe Rodriguez and his musical innovations.

A year ago, we used a great song by Rodriguez to add a little extra spice to one of James’ photo essays of Cuba. Here’s a departure from the traditional, trumpet-heavy “conjunto” sound that influenced Rodriguez and much of the island’s music in the previous century. Released in 1963 on Epic Records, “Quindembo Afro-Magic/La Magia de Arsenio Rodriguez” features a sax player and especially strong African rhythms. The album later was released under the title “Legends” and has long been out of print. If you can find it, pick it up… it’s a remarkable outing from this essential artist: Compay Cimarron/Arsenio Rodriguez

Back to Ribot… On “Los Cubanos Postizos,” he and his core band – Brad Jones on bass, EJ Rodriguez on percussion and Robert J. Rodriguez on drums and percussion (both unrelated to Arsenio) – tackle seven songs written or recorded by the Cuban master from the 1930s until his death in 1972. But this isn’t an exercise in faithfully recreating the original versions. The band stakes out its own turf with stark, insistent rhythms and playful accents on organ and mellotron provided by special guests John Medeski and Anthony Coleman. And the main voice throughout is Ribot, either caressing or thrashing his razor-sharp electric guitar. Not your standard tribute album, but I doubt Arsenio would’ve objected… Postizo

Actually, things are fairly sedate up to that point. The first tune is a slow, minor-key rumba that builds beautifully with Ribot’s lyrical guitar. And the second number, with its loping, mid-tempo beat, doesn’t sound like it would be out of place on an album by War – if the band had hired jazz guitarist Kenny Burrell as a guest artist: Aqui Como Alla

Ribot being Ribot, the album isn’t without a few oddball flourishes. You almost have to be a fan to appreciate the way he wraps some spoken wordplay around this fiery solo: La Vida Es un Sueno

Los Cubanos Postizos released a second album in 1980, and I’d argue it’s even better than the first (word has it the band was signed by Atlantic after playing only three gigs together). “Muy Divertido! (Very Entertaining!)” gets off to a strong start with Dame Un Cachito Pa’Huele, another composition by Rodriguez. This one includes a fine vocal by Eszter Balint as well as Steve Nieve on organ: Dame Un Chachito Pa’Huele

Ribot throws three originals into the mix, including another spoken-word number. This one extolls the virtues of New Jersey’s verdant, rolling hills. In a recent NPR Fresh Air interview, Ribot said he’d been listening to a lot of classic Cuban records, and “there’s a lot about distance and exile and wanting to return home – the lost home… Well, I’ll write a ‘long-lost home song’ about not being able to go back to New Jersey for some mysterious reason.” So what does the Jersey native write about? A neighborhood near the Holland Tunnel that sits on top of a former garbage dump. Maybe the post-punk label works just fine: Las Lomas de New Jersey

This next instrumental is one of a handful of songs that take me to a specific place – in this case, the beach… any beach. Sun beating down, sailboats on the horizon, hot woman to my left (wife, of course), cold beer on my right… The song’s title is appropriate given my fair complexion – not to mention the slow burn that Ribot and band create with this one: El Gaucho Rojo

But the strongest number on the album isn’t penned by either Ribot or Rodriguez. It’s a composition by Pedro Flores, a Puerto Rican bandleader in the 1930s and early ‘40s. And once again, Ribot and band do the unexpected – turning Flores’ bolero into a quirky carnival funhouse that would make Tom Waits proud: Obsesion

With the two Cuban-influenced albums under his belt, Ribot quickly moved on to other projects – including the Ayler tribute and, most recently, “Silent Movies,” in which Ribot re-imagines himself as a musical accompanist at a theater that only features long-lost classics.

He also remains a very in-demand session guitarist. Over the years, he’s recorded with a long and diverse list of artists that include Waits, Alan Toussaint, Medeski Martin & Wood, McCoy Tyner, Marianne Faithful, T-Bone Burnett, Elvis Costello, Madeline Peyroux… and The Black Keys. Largely based on Dan’s enthusiasm for the two “Cubanos” albums, the Keys brought Ribot in to play on their 2008 release, “Attack & Release.” As you can tell from Ribot’s searing solo on this next cut, Dan’s instincts were right on the money (nasty tone on this one… and Dan isn’t divulging any trade secrets): So He Won’t Break/The Black Keys

Virtually everything Ribot has recorded demands my respect, but I keep going back to those two records of convoluted Cuban music – and it’s nice to know he hasn’t completely abandoned the concept. Here’s a video of Ribot performing with a new lineup of Cubanos Postizos last year at The Oval in Stuyvesant Town, New York City. Muy divertido de veras!

A few posts back, I touched on my stint playing in a Columbus, Ohio bar band. And one of the pleasures of that assignment was opening for and rubbing up against some fairly respectable players, including Roy Buchanan, James Cotton, The Fabulous Thunderbirds, The Paladins and Anson Funderburgh with Sam Myers, to name a few.

Those gigs fed my fantasies of living the life of an honest-to-god bluesrockin’ missionary, spreading the good word in roadhouse bars across America. That is, until I met the lovable lunatic Evan Johns – one of the most original guitar players who never hit the big time.

Although Johns’ unique approach to his instrument betrayed no hint of formal training, he could launch into a beautiful mess of sublime, jazzy chords. Then minutes later, he’d choke out the nastiest, filthiest, most blood-curdling sounds you’ve ever heard coming from a Fender. And he didn’t sing as much as howl, much like one of Dexter’s victims braying over the sound of a radial saw: Vacation Time

Born in Virginia and bred in the D.C.-area bar circuit, Johns guesses he started playing professionally before he even got out of grade school. And he swam in the city’s big pool of talent that included legendary pickers like Buchanan, Link Wray, Danny Gatton, Roy Clark and Jimmy Thackery.

I first heard Johns’ playing on a Grammy-nominated compilation from 1985 called “Trash, Twang and Thunder: Big Guitars from Texas,” an orgy of Telecaster-driven excess (Johns had moved to Austin the previous year). But I was really floored by the garage-rock masterpiece he recorded in ’82 with his band the H-Bombs, “Rollin’ Through the Night.” The album was released four years later on Alternative Tentacles, a record label founded by punk-rocker Jello Biafra of the Dead Kennedys (who remains one of Johns’ biggest champions). Johns and band make a joyful noise throughout, completely uninformed by any bad trend in music that had come and gone since the first rockabillies roamed the planet back in the mid-‘50s. Here’s a taste (stick around for the solo on this one): Sugar Cookie

So you can imagine my excitement in ’88 when I found out we were opening for Evan Johns and the H-Bombs at Stache’s, an oversized rec room of a music club just north of Ohio State campus. And after we set up our equipment the afternoon of the show, we waited patiently for the band’s arrival.

A few hours went by before a beat-up Econoline van pulled in front of the club. One of the band members (no roadies) slowly walked to the back of the van and opened up the double doors. Evan Johns practically spilled out onto High Street, giving new meaning to the term “many miles of bad road.” He stumbled into the club, wearing a soiled but stylish western shirt. Random swaths of greasy hair were either glued to his scalp or struggling to break free, and small bits of foam rubber were stuck to the side of his face. He took one look at our outstretched hands and, in a voice straight out of Dixie and the depths of hell, immediately asked for a large quantity of Busch beer. And there I was, staring at the face of my future as a road-dog musician.

Johns knocked back about six beers just changing the strings of his guitar. He stacked the empties on top of his amp and, by the time he began playing, much of the floor behind the amp was covered too. But he still managed to amaze those of us who were wearing out his latest album while scaring some of the unsuspecting kids who had wandered up from campus by mistake.

He played red-hot rockabilly instrumentals and bruising western swing workouts that sounded like Bob Wills had replaced the Texas Playboys with members of Megadeth. And his short, sturdy originals seemed to describe a lifestyle more familiar to carnies and crackheads than a “weekend warrior” like me with a steady government paycheck: Madhouse

We shared a few more gigs with Evan Johns and the H-Bombs over the next couple years. I didn’t spend much time with him, although he lit up considerably when I handed him that first 12-pack of cheap domestic beer. I had the opportunity to introduce him from the stage at one gig. Made some earnest comments about Johns being a true folk artist in the sense that everything he plays is genuine, unfiltered and steeped in real American music. Or some such nonsense… I was trying to match Johns beer-for-beer that night – should’ve written it down.

But Johns struck up a lasting friendship with our frontman, Ray Fuller. “I jammed with him a few times back in ’90, mostly playing rhythm to his lead,” Fuller said. “He asked me to do a bunch of Midwest dates with him, but I couldn’t commit at the time. We met up again in ’95 at the big rockabilly weekend in Marion, Indiana, the home of James Dean. We took Evan out to see Dean’s grave and then to the museum in Fairmount (apparently Johns is a bit of a history buff). Evan had a case of beer in his hotel room and was drinking one for breakfast when we picked him up.”

As you can imagine, the years haven’t been kind to Johns, who has struggled to make a living as a working musician. Although popular in Scandinavia, Johns hasn’t been able to sustain much of a following in the U.S. due to his take-no-prisoners style and erratic behavior. And a mixed bag of albums released on Rykodisc, Freedom and his own Jellyroll label (including one produced by Bruce Springsteen’s bass player, Garry Tallent) have generated little in the way of sales. None pack the wallop of “Rollin’ Through the Night,” although one comes close – a Christmas album released on Rykodisc on ’91 called “Please Mr. Santa Claus” (I still have my red vinyl copy, now fetching about $60 on amazon). Actually, beyond the title song, the album sidesteps the standard yuletide novelties in favor of first-rate instrumentals like a blazing version of Telstar and this odd little ditty: Santa’s Little Helper

A lifetime of drinking Busch and Buds from sunup to way past sundown has certainly taken its toll. Johns almost lost his eyesight in the early ‘90s from cataracts, and more recently, an undisclosed illness has placed him on a long list of candidates for a liver transplant.

Concerned about Johns’ worsening health, a group of friends and musicians in Austin held a benefit last November to raise money for his medical expenses. Performers included Kelly Willis, Gurf Morlix, the LeRoi Brothers and the superbly named Gay Sportscasters.

He’s been described as his own worst enemy and “a coot who isn’t old.” I prefer to think of him as the very definition of an enlightened rogue – an outsider artist of sorts who deserves far more fame and recognition for his wonderfully skewed guitar playing, singing and songwriting. And although I never really hit the road myself, I’ll always love Evan Johns for bringing his sanctified holy-rollin’ revival to our cozy little bar in Columbus.

If I Had My Way/Evan Johns and the H-Bombs

For more on Evan Johns and his music, let me direct you to an excellent profile written some 13 years ago by Eddie Dean for the Washington City Paper. Here’s an excerpt:

“All the on- and offstage histrionics wouldn’t have amounted to squat if Johns hadn’t been a bona fide guitar hero. He is casually eloquent, squeezing noise out of his Tele in ways that have nothing to do with roadhouse picking and grinning. He solos against himself, setting up riffs that he backfills with musical quotes, jokes, and hiccups that build until you find yourself laughing in spite of yourself. Over a beer, Johns is a witty guy. On a guitar, he is smarter and even funnier, Lenny Bruce and Henny Youngman and a hundred other inspired notions wrapped up in one big noisy sound.”

And here’s a little number by Ray Fuller & The Bluesrockers that’s sort of a tribute to our old pal Evan Johns (recorded live at Stache’s in ’92): Everything That’s Good