We’ve covered guitarist Robert Quine pretty well in this blog, especially here and here. But I had to throw this post together after my sister came across a long-lost article in the bottom of a box at her house in Akron, just a block from where Rob grew up. I think she got it from Rob’s mom, Rosalie, who did a fine job of chronicling her son’s career, starting with the trailblazing NYC punk band Richard Hell and the Voidoids back in the mid-70s, then with Lou Reed, then on to a whole slew of guest appearances – from Lydia Lunch and Marianne Faithfull to Tom Waits and Matthew Sweet.

The article, titled “Run – Don’t Walk,” was written by rock journalist and musician Rick Batey (author of “The American Blues Guitar: An Illustrated History”… you can buy a copy below) and appears to be from a UK music magazine, probably Melody Maker. I couldn’t find any evidence of it online, even over at the uber-research site rocksbackpages.com, which lists 32 articles about Rob. I’ve dated it from 1990, since Batey references “a 47-year-old ex-lawyer” and Rob was born on December 30, 1942. Rob seems especially wound up and expansive during the interview, which really nails his skewed wit and musical wisdom (in writing my posts, I was disadvantaged by not having tape running during my conversations with Rob). He talks at length about influences, his approach to playing, the state of rock at the time, and even his favorite gear. And he betrays a deep appreciation of rock’s roots, which might seem surprising given the shrieking, often atonal solos that defined his playing with the Voidoids. As Rob liked to point out, “by many people’s standards, my playing is very primitive but by punk standards, I’m a virtuoso.”

Before I share some excerpts (with music samples for those of you who want to play along), I’ll offer this in the way of “full disclosure”… Rob is my second cousin, which makes him second cousin once removed from Daniel Quine Auerbach of The Black Keys (which explains the “DQA” on Dan’s guitar strap). Needless to say, Rob was a big influence on Dan, who regrets not having the opportunity to play and record with him (Rob died in 2004 from a heroin overdose).

Rob on Influences:

• I’ll buy almost any European reissue of totally obscure rockabilly bands; there’s a wildness, a freshness in those records that came from discovering things for the first time. Try to recreate that music, and you’d never even come close.

• I’m listening to J.J. Cale constantly at the moment. People are either bored by him, or completely hypnotized. You couldn’t call it innovative, but he’s a genius. I’d put him right up there with the great blues soloists, even though he can obviously play jazz as well. River Runs Deep

• And some time ago I started listening to James Burton again. I hadn’t heard him since 1962, so I checked out Waylon Jennings, Merle Haggard, the later Ricky Nelson, and even the Elvis stuff – which is pretty dire listening! Most guitarists burn out, it’s inevitable – even the caliber of Hendrix’s work fell off in the last year and a half of his life – but I saw James Burton with (Elvis) Costello and he’s still doing new things. He doesn’t copy his early work, but his identity is intact. How many players can you say that about? Susie-Q/Dale Hawkins with James Burton

• Initially I never dreamed of playing lead, I just wanted to play acoustic guitar like the Everly Brothers. I remember being shocked on hearing the flipside of Bye Bye Love and discovering a steel guitar hidden in there! I thought – these guys are hillbillies! But then, in almost the same month, Link Wray’s Rumble and Duane Eddy’s Movin’ ‘n’ Groovin’ came out… Link Wray was the one that really grabbed me. I even got to meet him in 1975 because the Voidoids were using the same studio as him while we were making the “Blank Generation” album. I told him about some pretty obscure things of his that had really inspired me, and I think he appreciated it. He left his amplifier lying around, an Ampeg with four 12-inch speakers, so heavy it took five people to shift, and I used it for some of the better solos on that album. If he reads this, I hope he forgives me. No one was supposed to touch it. Ace of Spades/Link Wray

• I really got into electric guitar by playing along to Ritchie Valens records. I later found out that a studio musician called Rene Hall had played a lot of it, but Valens himself was a great guitarist and some of his instrumentals were really innovative. Fast Freight was the first record with two bassists – Red Callender on double bass, and Rene Hall getting a totally different, clanky sound from a six-string Danelectro. Valens was so young at the time – he died aged 17 – but you could hear him stretching out, even then. Fast Freight

• (Watching Buddy Holly play at a 1957 rock ‘n roll review) Buddy Holly playing a Stratocaster was an amazing thing. The image of Elvis banging away on an acoustic guitar was well-known, of course, but suddenly here was this guy with this Martian-looking guitar. What’s more, he was doing the singing and taking the solos. The other acts – Frankie Lymon, The Clovers, The Drifters – all used the big house band, but the Crickets were doing everything by themselves. I thought, “that’s bizarre.” And because this was 1957, it was before Buddy Holly had cleaned up his image: he had a baggy suit, un-capped teeth and wire-rimmed glasses! He covered a lot of Little Richard songs, funnily. Blue Days, Black Nights

• (Seeing John Coltrane in concert, 1966) I’d been getting into jazz, and I’d barely just figured out bebop when I went to this concert and sat in the very front row. There I was, analyzing it, trying to understand this out-there jazz, but these horns were going full velocity right in my face and all of a sudden I realized that there was nothing to understand. It was coming from the same place as a Charlie Patton or Howlin’ Wolf record. Living Space

• Hearing Eight Miles High was one of the final breakthroughs for me. It was the first hint of something real, as opposed to all this fusion trash. Lou Reed was listening to them, too. Back then, when we first met, Roger McGuinn was the only guitarist he had anything good to say about. He also liked (saxophonist) Ornette Coleman’s Ramblin’, and exactly the same thing happened to him as to me; he was trying to understand it all, when suddenly he realized “shit – this is just rock ‘n roll.” Eight Miles High

• Sometimes you can be struggling along, when all of a sudden the things you’ve been listening to come together with a snap. And the next guitar solo after Eight Miles High that came to terms with free jazz was the Velvet Underground’s I Heard Her Call My Name. At first I thought it was terrible, awful. The way he let the wrong harmonics feed back was totally unacceptable at the time but it was completely intentional, he knew exactly what he was doing. I Heard Her Call My Name

On Playing/Practicing:

• Sometimes I look out there and see a bunch of 11-year-old girls who don’t care, and I’ve got a stock solo that I can fall back on. Other times you want to keep yourself on edge, hopefully without destroying the song. Then again, there are places where I can show a total lack of respect for the songs if I want. But sometimes you get up there and nothing works, it’s just total frustration. So you decide to play it safe – and you can’t even do that right.

• A big part of understanding the Velvet Underground is realizing the guitars are detuned. When I worked on “Blue Mask,” Lou Reed played a great deal in D, which I find very hard to play along to. I ended up lowering the whole tuning of my guitar to D and still playing an E shape, and it’s that drone factor that’s the key to the whole thing.

• 

  Albert Collins

  I have no qualms about using a capo these days… I used to think of them as purely a crutch for beginners, until I did a session with Albert Collins. It was amazing to be there, playing right next to him. He was using a capo on everything, putting it right up to the ninth or tenth fret. He used his Telecaster, the studio’s regular Fender Twin set clean on 5, and no boxes whatsoever – and yet all this distortion was coming out, just from his fingers. It was really quite distressing. Melt Down/Albert Collins

• Ever since the Voidoids, chord playing has been the priority; with Lloyd Cole, I’m trying to leave the high and low E’s ringing as much as possible, and then sliding chords around inside of that. My confidence has grown over the years, but I’ve never been entirely comfortable with solos. The way Richard Hell got them out of me was to make me do it over and over again until I got so angry and frustrated, I’d just smash away at the strings. Lou Reed generally left me alone. Some people think that the solo on Waves of Fear from “Blue Mask” was the best thing I ever did, and that’s all they want to hear, but I’d like to think I can play lyrical stuff and still put as much emotion in as that. Not the same kind of emotion, thank God… I really put myself in a state to play that part – it wasn’t fun at all. My biggest break, a Lou Reed album for RCA, and I thought I was going to have a nervous breakdown and that they’d have to call a taxi and send me home! Waves of Fear

• There’s only one way I practice; for 15 years I’ve had this system of mixing the guitar in with a record and hearing it in stereo over headphones. I play along to blues things, or jazz if I’m feeling adventurous. I don’t enjoy sitting on my own and working out guitar parts, so this way it’s very immediate, I’m right in the middle of it. I remember once doing it with a song called Pharaoh’s Dance off Miles Davis’ “Bitches Brew.” It’s very ambiguous, you don’t know what key it’s in, and I found that I could play along with it using any notes I wanted and whatever I played wasn’t wrong – just so long as I did it with confidence. Finding my way around the fingerboard by doing things like that is my alternative to playing scales up the neck. Pharaoh’s Dance

• They just brought out the Little Richard boxed set. Something as savage as Good Golly Miss Molly, the scream of those sax solos – I’ll never tire of it because there’s something there that cannot be recaptured, not even by him; he tried, and he never came close. That what I try to do in a solo, to capture something that people can relate to, musically and emotionally. And I would rather listen to someone who can barely play, who had some soul, who made mistakes, than hearing jazz-rock scales all night long. I think that people like that kind of music because it doesn’t threaten them, and they like to live ordered lives. Ultimately, I don’t think they want to come to terms with their own emotions. Good Golly Miss Molly

• The only piece of advice I have to give is to listen. I violently disagree with people who never listen to other music for fear of being influenced. Other music is not a threat! You cannot harm yourself by listening to a Charlie Christian solo over and over again. Just give yourself over, inundate yourself with it. You don’t need to worry about losing your own identity. Breakfast Feud/Charlie Christian break

• I’ve got my own style, I suppose, but I play both good things and bad things. My idols are basically Charlie Christian, Lester Young and Charlie Parker, and if you worship people like that – as anybody that has a brain should – then even if you could play a thousand times better than you do, it would still keep your ego under control. It keeps you from getting a swell head, to say the least.

On the state of rock music (1990… but he could be describing 2012):

• I don’t want to get too deeply into my Rock is Dead lecture, and at least Guns N’ Roses are a basic band with guitars, but I can hardly see how things can get much worse, really. On the other hand, music of such bad quality is so generally accepted these days that I’m afraid things will get worse. If you look at the sales figures, you can hardly say that rock is dying. But most of the rock around now is borrowing so heavily from the past that I’m scared that in a few years people won’t remember who Van Halen were, let alone Led Zeppelin or Jimi Hendrix. Perhaps there is good music, but I’m not hearing it.

• I can’t see what the “next step” is going to be; it seems as though all the obvious combinations, like jazz and rock, have been experimented with already. One of the last really new things for me was Brian Eno’s ambient music, and that’s just basically stuff on one chord – he’s a genius. Music’s the only thing that makes any sense to me, and if I really believed everything I’m saying here, I’d go back to being a lawyer. But it disturbs me that I have to wait for some unissued Charlie Christian or Jimmy Reed record for my musical enjoyment.

Rob shreds his way through the Velvet Underground’s White Light/White Heat… Live at the Bottom Line, NYC, 1983:

Several things happened since I first posted this piece almost two years ago: 1) Based on my google stats, it’s still drawing a lot of readers; 2) A new bio about long-time Thelonious Monk patron Pannonica de Koenigswarter – written by her great-niece Hannah Rothschild, who also directed The Jazz Baroness –  is now available on Kindle (you can buy it or pre-order the hardcover at the end of this post); and 3) The Jazz Baroness DVD was released in the UK on April 30, which should mean it will soon be available in the U.S. Seems like three good reasons for a re-post:

“This is the story of a love affair between a man and a woman whose backgrounds and experiences, whose cultures and class were so different, that the chances of them even meeting were extremely unlikely.”

So begins the documentary “The Jazz Baroness,” a fascinating look at the 28-year relationship between Pannonica (“Nica”) de Koenigswarter – member of the wealthy and powerful Rothschild dynasty – and jazz pianist Thelonious Monk. Written and directed by Nica’s great-niece Hannah Rothschild, the film was first broadcast on BBC in April 2009 and also appeared on HBO.

As writer Stanley Crouch points out in the documentary, Nica was “a complete European” while Monk, who he describes as “a Country Negro,” was a product of pre-Civil Rights North Carolina and a descendant of West African slaves. How did these two worlds collide?

Nica’s great wealth gave her the freedom to travel the world, but her love of American jazz brought her back again and again to New York City, where she became a friend and patron of the form’s most important artists. One of her oldest friends was swing pianist Teddy Wilson, who gained fame as a key member of Benny Goodman’s small bands.

Nica stopped by to see Wilson during a visit to New York during the late ‘40s. She only planned to stay a few days before heading on to Mexico, where she was living with her husband and family. Wilson told her she couldn’t leave without hearing this new record ‘Round Midnight. In the film, the wonderful British actress Helen Mirren narrates with Nica’s own words: “I couldn’t believe my ears. I’d never heard anything remotely like it. I made him play it 20 times in a row… missed my plane and never went back to Mexico.” She left her husband in 1951 and made New York City her home. ‘Round Midnight

The inevitable meeting of Nica and Monk didn’t occur until 1954, when they were introduced by legendary jazz pianist Mary Lou Williams. In the film’s second narrative, Hannah adds that Nica and Monk were hardly ever apart for the next 28 years.

“The Jazz Baroness” includes interviews with a number of jazz musicians, writers and enthusiasts, including Crouch, Sonny Rollins, Clint Eastwood, Quincy Jones and Gary Giddins, as well as T.S. Monk Jr. and several of Nica’s notable relatives. But jazz drummer and bandleader Chico Hamilton almost steals the show with two gems. First, in just a few seconds of scat-singing magic, he lays bare the difference between swing and be-bop. And in a second clip, he recalls hearing Monk’s bass player offer this observation about his boss’ unique approach: “Man, I’ve played with piano players who played all the white keys, and I’ve played with piano players who played all the black keys. But I never played with no motherfucker who played in between the cracks.”

Here’s Monk, playing in between the cracks: Little Rootie Tootie

Nica was a beloved figure among jazz musicians, especially those who benefited from her patronage. More than 20 songs have been written about her – Nica’s Dream, Thelonica, Blues for Nica, Tonica, Nica Steps Out… but the best belong to Monk. Suitably, his crowning achievement is Pannonica, from his thorny masterpiece “Brilliant Corners.” It features Rollins on sax and Monk on celeste – an odd choice for jazz, but maybe the perfect instrument to capture the essence of a name that Nica’s eccentric father first gave to a new species of butterfly. Pannonica

Thankfully, “The Jazz Baroness” offers nothing in the way of sensational, E! Network-style confessionals about the nature of Monk’s relationship with Nica. Monk would balk at suggestions that they were anything other than close friends. But his son T.S. makes the bold statement that Nica “fell in love with my dad – I have no doubt about that… She was profoundly moved by his music and personality. He was a good-looking cat… She was a hottie…” And that’s about as far as it goes. Obviously, Hannah Rothschild knows how to play in between the cracks too.

In fact, she offers the theory that Monk’s long-time wife, Nellie, might have appreciated Nica’s helping hand in dealing with a full-blown manic-depressive – an illness that only worsened in Monk’s later years. The film claims that Monk was diagnosed as a schizophrenic and received electroshock treatments during a stay in San Francisco.

Nica remained unshakably devoted to Monk throughout the rest of his life. She even took the rap for drug possession ($10 worth of weed) when she was pulled over while driving Monk and sax player Charlie Rouse to a concert in Wilmington, DE. Nica faced a possible sentence of three years in jail followed by deportation, but managed to get off on a technicality. “His protection is at the root of the whole business,” she later explained, knowing that her race and wealth gave her a far greater chance to prevail in court.

Nica’s influence also helped secure a long-standing and legendary gig for Monk at New York’s Five Spot Café. Here’s a 1958 recording from the Five Spot featuring “the Little Giant” Johnny Griffin on tenor sax, Ahmed Abdul-Malik on bass and Roy Haynes on drums: Rhythm-A-Ning

By the 1970s, Monk’s mental illness became far more debilitating.  He eventually moved into Nica’s cat-filled house in Weehawken, NJ, and lived there until his death from a stroke in 1982. During his final years, he stopped playing altogether and spent most of his time in bed, surrounded by books, magazines and records. “He wanted to get well more than anything in the world,” Mirren narrates as Nica. “He cooperated with his doctors 100 percent and tried everything under the sun, but nothing seemed to help. I only regret one thing in my life, and that’s not being able to save Thelonious.”

Hot New Artist: Thelonious Monk

“The Jazz Baroness” wasn’t the only major work about Monk’s life and music that debuted in 2009. We also could feast on author Robin D. G. Kelley’s exhaustive labor of love, “Thelonious Monk: The Life and Times of an American Original.” And I dug right in, because 608 pages seems hardly enough to cover one of the most important composers and performers of the 20^th Century.

Among its many merits, Kelley’s book debunks several widely held myths about Monk and his music. Here are just a few…

Myth: Monk was an idiot-savant – a jazz “outsider” artist who simply channeled his strange muse and received very little in the way of a formal education in music.

Reality: Monk was well-read, took advantage of the best musical training his community offered, was a master of the traditional “stride” piano style, and could play classical compositions by Chopin and Rachmaninoff. In other words, he worked hard at his craft.

Myth: Monk’s sparse, deliberate style wasn’t a musical choice – he didn’t have the chops to play any faster.

Reality: Monk could play blazingly fast if he wanted to, and would occasionally cut loose with Art Tatum-like passages to prove his point with fellow musicians.

Myth: Be-bop was fully formed during Monk’s stint as house pianist at the famous Harlem nightclub Minton’s Playhouse.

Reality: Many participants in the Minton jam sessions were swing musicians who struggled with the new form – so the recordings that survived could hardly be described as be-bop.

If you have any love for Monk’s legacy as a composer, performer and cultural icon, you’ll want to add Kelley’s book to your reading list. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with this performance of Epistrophy from a taping in Poland, 1966. Listen to Monk’s powerful left hand in the opening… a nod to past masters, like the great stride player Willie “The Lion” Smith? I know there are better performance clips out there than this abbreviated take, but I like how the camera lingers as Monk and band screw around after the abrupt ending…

And here’s a more polished performance of the same tune – filmed live in Japan:

I’m usually not a “let us praise our fallen rock heroes” kind of guy. But I have to admit, the passing of Levon Helm hit me a little hard.

And I’m not sure I can really explain why. I always had the greatest respect for The Band, but I probably was overexposed to them as a kid, which is why they rarely showed up on my “steady rotation” playlist at home.

Still, Levon Helm always was an inspiration. Most of my favorite songs by The Band featured Levon, front and center – The Weight, Up on Cripple Creek, The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down, Rag Mama Rag… To me, his voice is as real as it gets. And I don’t think it has anything to do with a misplaced sense of national pride, in that Levon was the only American (an Okie at that) in a band otherwise full of Canucks.

Maybe I’m a sucker for a guy who can lay down a rock-solid rhythm on drums while singing with so much soul. I definitely found him to be the funkiest, rootsiest member of The Band. In fact, the song from their catalog that I probably listened to the most wasn’t even an original – it was their cover of a Motown single by Marvin Gaye, Baby Don’t You Do It. The song opened up The Band’s great live album “Rock of Ages,” recorded at the NYC Academy of Music during the last few days of 1971 (I especially dug the legendary Allen Toussaint’s horn charts on this tune and 10 others). And Levon tore into it like a junkyard dog on a dangling leg: Don’t Do It

Levon and the Hawks

The Band started out as honest-to-god, roots-rockin’ road dogs – playing blues, rockabilly and honky-tonk covers in dives across the U.S. and Canada. They originally came together as Ronnie Hawkins’ backup band the Hawks, but eventually morphed into Levon and the Hawks (which should tell you something about Levon’s status in the band) and the Canadian Squires.

Here’s a garage-rocker by the Squires that I featured in a previous post, with some wonderfully sloppy harmonica by guitarist Robbie Robertson: Uh Uh Uh

Probably no need to go into the much-celebrated catalog of The Band, including their many storied collaborations with Bob Dylan. You can find countless tomes online and elsewhere praising them as the very definition of what we now commonly label as Americana. But I thought I should feature this little number from an outstanding box set compiled by Robertson – “The Band: A Musical History.” It was recorded live with Dylan at Carnegie Hall, ’68: I Ain’t Got No Home

The Band eventually dissolved in a slew of allegations regarding where the money was going – mainly to Robertson, the group’s primary songwriter. Although I haven’t read “This Wheel’s on Fire: Levon Helm and the Story of The Band” (it’s next on my list), my understanding is that Levon and other members felt they were unfairly cut out of a large portion of The Band’s revenue. It seemed like even before Robertson left The Band, he started to view himself as a solo artist working with hired hands who simply played what he wanted them to play. But I doubt Levon would’ve tolerated that kind of arrangement, given his larger-than-life personality and talent.

Enough about that… I’ll confess that I spent more time following Levon as a solo artist, starting with some tasty tunes he recorded in ’77 as “Levon Helm and the RCO All-Stars.” The band included one of my main guys on blues harp, Paul Butterfield, as well as a few other notables such as Booker T and the MGs and Dr. John. None of it broke new ground, but there’s a lot to like if you’re a fan of Memphis soul and blues:

Speaking of blues, Levon, Garth Hudson of The Band and Butterfield provided a lot of the highlights on one of my favorite late-era albums by Muddy Waters: “The Woodstock Album.” It might not have the snarl of Muddy’s comeback record with Johnny Winter, “Hard Again,” but I always loved the hard-driving sound of Levon’s snare drum on this album – like he’s beating a cardboard box with a giant hambone. Muddy’s big, booming voice might be the main attraction, but Levon makes you wonder how he would’ve fared as a Chess Records session guy. And then there’s the gravy – mainly, Butterfield playing like a man possessed and Hudson rocking out on accordion (yeah, you heard it right… he must’ve had some Clifton Chenier in his record collection): Going Down to Main Street

Despite its many highlights, “hit and miss” would be a fair description of Levon’s 35-year career as a solo artist… that is, until he got around to recording his last two studio albums, “Dirt Farmer” and “Electric Dirt.” I think both Grammy-winning releases – recorded long after he was diagnosed with throat cancer – serve as prime examples of everything that’s good and right about Levon. Although his voice obviously had a rougher edge in his final years, he really dug in to put these songs across with the passion and energy of a much younger (and healthier) man. And he seemed to be stealing back a few years on drums too. I never had the good fortune to make it to one of the Rambles that Levon held at his barn in Woodstock, NY. But most accounts of those performances typically include two disparate observations: 1) Levon looked every bit his age and more as he shuffled around the barn and 2) he gave no quarter when he was behind his kit. If you came to play, you’d better get used to the feeling of that bass-drumming boot up your ass. False Hearted Lover Blues

Call me callous, but the news of Levon’s passing made all the hoopla around Dick Clark’s demise seem even more trivial (I had to laugh at a tweet by comedian Rob Delaney: “Ryan Seacrest holding strategy meeting to properly calibrate ‘emotion’ in his Dick Clark statement”). Slick hucksters come and go, but there’s a special place in the rock ‘n roll firmament for a guy who combined a timeless appeal with a deep understanding of what this music is all about. And let’s not forget those prodigious chops (apparently, Levon was Buddy Rich’s favorite rock drummer).

As MTV’s Bill Flanagan said so eloquently (I know, MTV and eloquently don’t belong in the same sentence) in a moving tribute to Levon on CBS Sunday Morning, “the last 10 miraculous years gave Levon a sort of extended victory lap… It was as if heaven decided to give Levon an extra decade, just so we could all hear his songs one more time. Just to give Levon and the people who loved him a proper chance to say goodbye.”

RIP Levon… And don’t be too hard on Robertson when he shows up.

Up on Cripple Creek, from The Last Waltz… Any doubt that Levon was the heart and soul of The Band?

The Black Keys and John Fogerty pay tribute to Levon Helm – rehearsing backstage at Coachella:

“Tim, you’ve just spent another post exhuming a dead blues guy. Are you listening to any music recorded since, say, 1964?”

Another nasty missive in the RCR mailbox (family members can be such pains in the ass!). But it reminded me I should step out of the comfort zone of my own collection now and then and find out what those kooky kids in Brooklyn and Portland are cramming into their smart phones.

Eh, screw that… Let’s head down to Nashville and sample the latest release by alternative country artist Buddy Miller – “The Majestic Silver Strings” (alright, it’s been out for a year now, but for me that’s brand spankin’ new). I’m always leery of these all-star projects, even with a supporting cast this good: singers Patty Griffin, Emmylou Harris, Julie Miller, Lee Ann Womack and Ann McCrary (who sings on Dr. John’s “Locked Down”), and guitarists Bill Frisell, Marc Ribot and Greg Leisz (pedal steel). But the end result is far more cohesive and rewarding than I expected. Highlights include McCrary’s duet with Buddy on a jumpin’ version of the Mickey and Sylvia tune No Good Lover, and a spirited take on George Jones’ classic honky tonker Why Baby Why. But I think my favorite is this twisted lullaby about those little pills that keep us from leaping out the open window (written by Ribot and sung by Womack): Meds

Sister Sparrow and the Dirty Birds

Here’s a band from Brooklyn I can wrap my head around… I caught Sister Sparrow and the Dirty Birds a few weeks ago at the Beachland Tavern in Cleveland (my buddy Bob Basone and his Akron-based band Wesley Bright and the Hi-Lites rocked the opening set). I knew I was onto something special when the Birds hit a heavy, soul-drenched groove from the get-go. Then lead singer Arleigh Kincheloe took the stage and I felt like an alcoholic at a Jimmy Buffett show. This pint-sized powerhouse had us at “Hello Cleveland” and begging for more after tearing through some funky originals and even a blistering, old-school version of The Rolling Stones’ Miss You, which showcased Aleigh’s brother Jackson on harp. The band is loaded with talent, including a first-rate rhythm section and some scary horn players (two of them spent some time in Ohio studying at Oberlin College). Here’s a little taste of what you don’t want to miss if Sister Sparrow and the Dirty Birds land at a club near you (from their new release “Pound of Dirt”)… Make It Rain

Nephew Dan took a little time off from The Black Keys’ recent European tour to record a tune with neo-soulman Michael Kiwanuka. I’ll give full credit to RCR supporter The Coppertone for turning me on to Kiwanuka’s EP, “Tell Me a Tale.” I was blown away by the steamy title track, which shows up along with the EP’s Worry Walks Beside Me on Kiwanuka’s new release in the UK, “Home Again” (expect a 7/31 release date in the U.S.). His sweet spot is Bill Withers-influenced acoustic soul – one of several spices that end up in this slow-burning original (I’m also getting a taste of The Band, baked in the Jamaican sun). “Lasan was recorded at Ray Davies’ Konk Studio in London,” Dan said. “We never met before the session, but everything came together pretty quickly. It was recorded, mixed and mastered in two days.” And now it’s the B-side to Tell Me a Tale. Check here to see if Kiwanuka’s June mini-tour of the eastern U.S. and Canada is coming your way. Lasan

“Hear my father on the radio singing ‘take me home again.’ 300 miles from the Carolina Coast and I’m skin and bones again. Sometimes I wish that I could get away… sometimes I wish that he’d just call. Am I that lonely tonight? I don’t know.” I met Justin Townes Earle at a show in Columbus several years ago and made the mistake of mentioning his father, the great singer-songwriter Steve Earle. Bad move. As you can tell by the lyrics to the lead song on Justin’s new album, “Nothing’s Gonna Change The Way You Feel About Me Now,” he has a fairly complicated relationship with the old man. And he didn’t exactly warm up to my casual mention of seeing his dad play at a fundraiser in Nashville. Note to self: If you ever run into Justin again… Am I That Lonely Tonight?

Think of The Beach Boys at their peak, back when they started experimenting with hard drugs… What if Old Man Wilson took away their T-birds and surfboards and moved them to Cleveland, where they had to work all day in a machine shop and rehearse at night in a rat-infested garage? They’d probably sound a lot like Dr. Dog. I passed on the Philly-based band’s first few albums, but gained a new appreciation of their highly original pop-rock when I came across this little gem from their latest release, “Be the Void.” You can still hear the same trippy harmonies, but the music sounds a little less quirky than their earlier stuff, with fatter rhythms and more focused arrangements. And it all seems to come together on this tune: How Long Must I Wait

Alabama Shakes

Lots of online chatter about “Boys & Girls,” the new album by Alabama Shakes… not to mention this nice, lengthy article in the Sunday New York Times. Not all of the chatter is coming from true believers (as one guy groused on Twitter, “The Alabama Shakes album does nothing for me”). OK, I get the fact that they’re not exactly creating a revolutionary new form of southern soul. But it’s hard to deny the sultry swagger of this tune – and the band’s powerful lead singer, Brittany Howard. I think I’ll stick with them for awhile… how ‘bout y’all? Be Mine

A few of RCR’s more loyal readers might think I wouldn’t have much love for someone as mellow as Norah Jones. Au contraire, mi amigos. I found her first album, the massive hit “Come Away With Me,” to be wonderfully elegant and understated – just the sweet tonic we needed in a post-9/11 world. And to me, tunes like Lonestar have the timeless appeal of classic country… like That’s The Way Love Goes by Lefty Frizzell or even Red Headed Stranger by Willie Nelson. But Jones’ career has taken quite a few interesting twists and turns since her 2002 debut, and her new collaboration with Danger Mouse, “Little Broken Hearts” (due May 1), could be the most daring departure of all. You’d expect Ribot to write a song about pharmaceuticals, but Norah? Happy Pills

Let’s check in with our friends from southwest Ohio, Heartless Bastards… The mighty Erika Wennerstrom and band record a tune for their new album “Arrow” (released in February):

America’s greatest musical export? That’s easy – Chess blues and rock ‘n roll.

New Orleans R&B might be a close second, and you can’t deny the lasting, global impact of jazz greats like Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Thelonious Monk and Sonny Rollins. But think of that strange cultural looping effect that took place in the ‘60s as the Beatles and the Stones co-opted Chess artists like Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf and then taught us poor, misguided Americans a thing or two about our own musical heritage (and don’t forget Led Zeppelin’s ’69 cover of Sonny Boy Williamson’s Bring It On Home). Throw James Brown into the mix and it’s the basis for virtually everything we listen to today – unless you’re partial to dead German composers or Kenny Chesney.

Alright, it’s not quite that simple… but pretty damn close in my book. And I started developing this fairly narrow wordview at an early age, when I first came across an odd-looking album stashed over at my sister’s house – a two-record set of Little Walter’s “greatest hits.” Walter’s wailing harp shook me to the core: Roller Coaster …and I quickly decided to dive a little deeper into the Chess catalog.

Of course that led me to Muddy and Wolf, and I’ve been a lost cause ever since. You can have your techno trash and indie troubadours… I need something a little closer to the truth – or at least the version documented by Leonard and Phil Chess at 2120 South Michigan Ave., Chicago.

Given the power and majesty of Little Walter’s amplified sound, I initially didn’t take to the more countrified, acoustic harmonica of Sonny Boy Williamson II. But I used a well-paying gig in Columbus as an opportunity to buy a 4-CD overview of Sonny Boy’s Chess years (including some interesting outtakes, which we’ll cover shortly). And I was quickly hooked on the many pleasures of the Sonny Boy songbook.

Let’s start with the voice. Like every other facet of the man and his music, there’s nothing else quite like it in the world of blues. It’s a deep, soulful, almost purring sound – somewhere between a croon and a moan. And when he throws in that funky vibrato… man, I’m gone. I’m always floored when that voice sneaks up on me (which is pretty rare, since his songs are seldom licensed for commercial use and he doesn’t even get much play on blues radio shows). Sonny Boy never got his due as a singer… Bring It On Home

Then there’s the harmonica. He was a masterful player who used a deceptively simple, unadorned approach to convey a whole lot of emotion. Little Walter may have taught many of his followers how to rock a Fender with a cheap PA mic, but Sonny Boy’s the guy you want to sound like when the plugs are all pulled and the lights are low. Like hearing a grown man cry, which I can assure you is a very good thing. You Killing Me (On My Feet)

Sonny Boy and Robert Lockwood Jr.

Then there’s the supporting cast. During the Chess years, Leonard consistently surrounded Sonny Boy with the best players in Chicago. Otis Spann on piano. Willie Dixon on bass. Fred Below and Odie Payne on drums. And what phenomenal guitar players: Jimmy Rogers, Luther Tucker, Buddy Guy, Matt “Guitar” Murphy… and Sonny Boy’s secret weapon, the great and underrated Robert Lockwood Jr. I had the pleasure of seeing Lockwood play many times in Cleveland, where he lived for nearly five decades. But it took me a while to find out about his essential contributions to Sonny Boy’s Chess recordings. Lockwood could swing with sting, playing with a jazzy sophistication that belied some serious (and hard-earned) blues chops. I can’t imagine a more sympathetic accompanist to his quirky frontman (this one also features some fine playing by Spann). Cross My Heart

Let’s not forget the songs… so many blues classics, like the next one. “When I walk, walk with me. When I talk, you talk to me. Oh baby… I can’t do it all by myself. You know if you don’t help me darling, I’ll have to find myself somebody else.” Sort of a weird combination of braggadocio and pathos. Probably a true reflection of the man himself, who often was described as irascible, difficult, distrustful of most people… and maybe even a little evil. His best songs create this dark, subterranean vibe. Even the titles intimidate: Your Funeral and My Trial. Keep Your Hand Out of My Pocket. One Way Out. Don’t Start Me Talkin’. Sonny Boy was a true badass of the blues. Help Me

Sonny Boy had already put in some serious miles before he showed up at Chess Studios in 1955. Depending on who you believe, he was born in 1899 (Sonny Boy’s claim), 1908 (on his headstone) or 1912 (possible census evidence). Very little is known about his first 30 years on the planet, other than he probably spent a lot of time in Tallahatchie County, Mississippi under his given name, Aleck “Rice” Miller. He also gained a strong taste for virtually all the major vices – booze, gambling, womanizing – while running across the southern U.S. and beyond with blues legends like Robert Johnson, Robert Nighthawk, Elmore James, Homesick James and Lockwood.

In Helena, Arkansas, Sonny Boy and some of his musical buddies (including Lockwood) developed a long and storied partnership with the Interstate Grocery Company as the King Biscuit Entertainers. They were the official band of King Biscuit Time, a show on KFFA radio that was mainly established to promote the company’s flour. It was during this stint in the ‘40s that Sonny Boy – probably goaded on by Interstate’s owner, Max Moore – appropriated the name of John Lee “Sonny Boy” Williamson, one of Chicago’s most successful and widely recognized bluesmen (Good Morning Little School Girl). And I’m guessing this grand act of identity theft is one of the main reasons why Sonny Boy II (who had little in common with his namesake) never received the same level of respect as Muddy, Wolf and Walter.

Sonny Boy recorded a few incendiary sides for the Trumpet label – most notably, the classic Mighty Long Time. But his greatest musical legacy is the time he spent at Chess from 1955 to 1964, cutting one blues gem after another. I have my personal favorites – some obvious ones, like Help Me, One Way Out and Checkin’ Up on My Baby, as well as a few more obscure yet equally satisfying numbers like this spot-on impersonation of Howlin’ Wolf: Like Wolf

I also enjoy the now-legendary outtakes, which feature some spirited banter between Sonny Boy and his boss Leonard Chess. I spliced together a couple of my favorite moments on this next sample… Don’t play it for the kids. Outtakes

Sonny Boy closed out his career at Chess with some fairly listless recordings, but took London by storm as part of the 1963 American Folk Blues Festival. He even stayed on after the tour, eventually recording and performing overseas with the Animals, the Yardbirds, Jimmy Page and other British bluesrockers. In the folk-blues concerts, he was fairly laid back and reserved. But in the clubs, he was the consummate showman – whipping out his old juke-joint bag of tricks that included playing his harmonica sideways and with no hands. Probably not what the kids expected from an elderly statesman of the blues – especially someone who began sporting a fine two-tone suit and bowler hat in honor of his new surroundings!

Sonny Boy probably knew his time wasn’t long when he returned to Helena in the spring of 1965. He played a few gigs and hung out with some of his old running buddies before passing away on May 25 of that year from a heart attack (apparently “hard living” wasn’t one of the options for the death certificate). You can find his grave under a large, well-kept headstone in Whitfield Cemetery, Tutwiler, Mississippi.

As British blues producer and writer Neil Slaven pointed out in the expansive liner notes to the Chess box set, “It’s ironic that such a private man in life should now have so many friends after his death. His music is his most durable memorial.”

Great video of Sonny Boy, solo – from the American Folk Blues Festival in Europe:

No need to try to hunt down that “Chess Years” box set (I couldn’t find a copy on Amazon or eBay). “The Essential Sonny Boy Williamson” (below) delivers the goods with 45 prime cuts from the Chess catalog (you blues vinyl nerds out there will know these tunes were originally released on the label’s Checkers subsidiary). “Bummer Road” includes a few other Chess tunes as well as the sprawling 12-minute outtake Little Village, in which an exasperated Sonny Boy explains to Leonard Chess the song is about a small town. “King Biscuit Time” pulls together most of his Trumpet recordings, live cuts from one of his final appearances on the radio program, and the earliest recorded version of Elmore James’ Dust My Broom.

Let me start by saying Dr. John’s new album, “Locked Down,” is one of the most satisfying listens I’ve come across in the last few years. But I’ll also admit I can’t be very objective about the project, given my familial connection with the album’s producer, Dan Auerbach.

So rather than review it and raise further questions about my razor-thin credibility, I decided to pull Dan aside during a recent outing in NYC and have him break it down for us track-by-track.

Let’s start with a little background… “Locked Down” was recorded at Dan’s Easy Eye Sound Studio in Nashville and engineered by Collin Dupuis. Along with Dan, it features:

• Leon Michels on keyboards, percussion, woodwinds, background vocals (a Daptone Records session guy; Menahan Street Band, among others)
• Nick Movshon on bass, percussion, background vocals (another Daptone regular; Antibalas, etc.)… Both Nick and Leon toured with The Black Keys
• Brian Olive on guitar, percussion, woodwinds, background vocals (The Greenhornes, The Soledad Brothers)
• Max Weissenfeldt on drums, percussion and background vocals (Poets of Rhythm)
• The McCrary Sisters on background vocals

TQ: Dr. John is none too pleased about the sad state of current affairs (BP was an obvious target of his wrath following the Gulf oil spill). Locked Down is one of several songs that express his anger. You kind of pushed him a little into this more personal approach with his songwriting, right?

DQA: I tried to get him to do more personal stuff… When I went to meet with him in New Orleans he had conspiracy theory magazines and he had a lot of poetry he’d written. A lot of that stuff ended up in there, and I thought that was really great. And I wanted to mix some of that with more personal stuff. Locked Down

TQ: He also sings with more conviction than I’ve heard from him in a while. Are these first-take vocals?

DQA: Sometimes they were easy and sometimes they were difficult. It was weird – there was no rhyme or reason. I couldn’t quite figure out why one song was easy to sing and one wasn’t. But it was like that.

TQ: Great left-field keyboard solo on Revolution.

DQA: Yeah, that was all Mac (Rebennack, Dr. John’s real name). That was first take. That was a Farfisa. I pushed him… I say pushed, but I really didn’t have to push him into doing it. It was just, “Mac, play that Farfisa.” (Dan imitating Mac) “Alright.” “Play that Wurlitzer man.” “Alright, whatever.” Revolution

TQ: Big shot – that’s the closest thing on the album to a traditional New Orleans tune. What song did you sample up front and at the end?

DQA: That’s the Optigan (OPTIcal orGAN). It was made by Mattel in the ‘70s – a kid’s toy. And it uses optical discs… you just push buttons, and it’s got pre-recorded loops. It’s running throughout the song, mixed in. You can hear it more in the choruses. Great horn lines, and a lot of times they’d record West Coast session guys doing little parts. And it’s all free to use – public domain samples. Yeah, they’re strange little machines, finicky… speed up and slow down. We had to play that along with the Optigan. That took us forever. Max the drummer had on headphones listening real intently. So he had to keep that groove and that swing but play along to this pre-recorded loop. I can’t believe it works, but it’s one of my favorites. Big Shot

TQ: Ice Age is one of a couple tunes that sound very African to me. Did Nick have a hand in that?

DQA: I think we all… Max especially. Max is the kind of guy who’d get on an airplane headed to Africa with just a pair of drumsticks (laughs). The whole crew is way into that stuff. Ice Age

TQ: Great “fooler” opening on Getaway. You’re expecting sort of vintage, mid-tempo Dr. John, but it ends up sounding like it wouldn’t be out of place on a Black Keys album…

DQA: Yeah, that’s our rocker on the record. Getaway (opening)

TQ: Your solo is searing. What were you after there?

DQA: That was a live solo… that was on the floor. Just went for it, really. Definitely the best I’ve ever recorded. Getaway (guitar solo)

TQ: Kingdom of Izzness is very funky. Where the hell did those gospel singers come from?

DQA: They are the McCrary Sisters from Nashville TN. Their dad was in the Fairfield Four. Mac said he remembered seeing their dad playing New Orleans… Curtis Mayfield opened for them. The Fairfield Four with some gospel group Curtis was in. They’re awesome. Alfreda, Regina and Ann. Kingdom of Izzness

The McCrary Sisters

TQ: You Lie has a deep, soulful opening riff with a heavy African influence. Your solos sound wonderfully skewed, like you’re playing in a different key than the rest of the band.

DQA: We made it up… just winged it, really. I was playing an open G on that song. That’s like the John Lee Hooker tuning. Mac started playing some crazy piano chords. They were like weird Sun Ra chords on top of this African thing we were doing (laughs). So much fun. I mean, the whole record was like that. You get guys that good in the same room… It was just “on.” You Lie

TQ: Eleggua… explain.

DQA: In the spirit kingdom, he’s the trickster. Mac knows a lot about him. The song is all about Eleggua – calling upon him to help him out. You know those candles you get at the Mexican grocery store? Spirit kingdom candles? He would light those before he sang, while we were writing. He’d position them around the room at various points for the proper… voodoo. Eleggua

TQ: My Children My Angels… Love this tune, especially Dr. John’s keyboard solo.

DQA: That’s Mac. That’s just him… he just does that without any thought, you know? It just pours right out of him, that kind of playing. My Children, My Angels

TQ: You convinced him to play more electric stuff on the album, right?

DQA: Yeah, I wanted him to play Wurly, Farfisa. When I went down to New Orleans, I was playing music for him. That was the stuff we both gravitated toward. Ethiopian funk (Mulatu Astatke). African stuff… weird Farfisa, weird keyboard sounds. We just really liked that.

TQ: God’s Sure Good… Sounds like classic soul. What’s behind that guitar riff?

DQA: I was definitely thinking Lonnie Mack… some old soul songs, some gospel. Leon had the chord changes for the verses. Leon’s a genius too (laughs). Hanging out with a bunch of geniuses on this record. I don’t think you can get a better rhythm section than Nick and Max… I don’t think it exists, anywhere. All those guys are so talented. They get it. I was trying to make it, not necessarily old… just kind of timeless. I didn’t want it to sound like a time capsule. I just wanted the production to be “out of the way.” I didn’t want to overdo anything, like reverb or anything like that. I wanted the kick drum to be modern and hit like a hip-hop record, but just be kind of natural-sounding. God’s So Good

Dr. John, Dan and band will be performing songs from “Locked Down” at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, April 5-7.

Here’s a little peek inside Easy Eye as Dr. John and friends record the title track… I especially like the cameo by Dan’s dog, Bella.

The Great Flood of 1927

So I’m pondering my next post and it dawns on me, some of my favorite songs are about rivers. Or, as Mr. Springsteen would put it, The River. That murky, mythological force that keeps drawing us down for purposes both sanctified (such as baptism) and sinful (e.g. killing your baby).

Charlie Patton

Here’s one that falls under the “bad things happen by the river” category. Recorded in 1929 by legendary bluesman Charlie Patton, High Water Everywhere chronicles the Great Mississippi Flood that occurred two years prior. Consider modern-day floods like the one that overcame much of Nashville in 2010, or several more in recent years that have plagued towns along the Mississippi River. The Great Flood of 1927 topped them all – taking 246 lives and causing more than $400 million in damages (probably the combined value of virtually every home and business within miles of the river). Patton’s lyrics are gut-wrenching: “It was 50 men and children come to sink and drown; Oh Lordy, women and grown men drown… Oh, women and children sinkin’ down Lord have mercy.” The song obviously had a big impact on Bob Dylan, who paid tribute to it with High Water (For Charlie Patton), recorded in 2001. High Water Everywhere Pt. 1

I’m sure you’re familiar with Johnny Cash’s cool cover of a tune originally performed by Australian singer Lucky Starr: I’ve Been Everywhere. You know… Reno, Chicago, Fargo, Minnesota, Buffalo, Toronto, etc. etc. (Lucky used Australian locales in the original). Well, it wasn’t the first travelogue song tackled by the Man in Black. He wrote a great one back in ’58 that he recorded that same year for Sam Phillips’ Sun label. Instead of highways and byways, it takes us down a veritable river of heartbreak (the Big Muddy, of course). Now I love Cash’s original, but I think I’m a little partial to a later version done by Texas honky-tonk hero Delbert McClinton – maybe because it borrows from the backwoods funk of Tony Joe White instead of the more familiar chunk of the Tennessee Three. I spliced them together on this one… you be the judge. Big River (Johnny Cash/Delbert McClinton)

Allison Krauss almost fooled me into thinking she’d written an American classic when I first heard her moving rendition of Down to the River to Pray (from the soundtrack to the movie “O Brother, Where Art Thou?”). Turns out it’s an old traditional that dates back to the 19^th Century – and, like most great traditionals, it was sung by African-American slaves in the fields. In fact, the tune appeared in an 1867 slave songbook as The Good Old Way, and some ethnomusicologists believe the song might have its roots in Native American culture. In more recent years, it’s been covered by a number of artists who have used various titles and lyrics that were loosely based on the original. Here’s a version that the Appalachian singer and flatpicker Doc Watson recorded in 1966 for his Vanguard album “Home Again!”: Down in the Valley to Pray

Getting back to more nefarious riverside activities, Neil Young wrote this dark little ditty for his classic 1969 album with Crazy Horse, “Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere.” And the tune’s basic sentiment is summarized in one startling line: “Down by the river, I shot my baby.” Why did he shoot her? Who the hell knows. I guess she decided not to take his side or, for that matter, take him for a ride. He seems to feel pretty bad about this senseless act of violence, and I’m sure he got his comeuppance (if you conveniently ignore worldwide sales of well over one million for Nowhere and Young’s continued success as a solo artist of utmost integrity). Apparently, Young wrote this tune when he was at home in bed suffering from a severe fever. Maybe the same malady inspired his brilliant, one-note solo in one of my all-time favorite tunes, Cinnamon Girl. Down by the River

Have to hand it to Al Green for somehow combining the sanctified and sinful in one river-related song. Some of you might be more familiar with The Talking Heads’ version. Let me respond to that by borrowing a line from Donnie Brasco: fuggedaboudit. But I’ll give David Byrne credit for recognizing the inherent power of a song that, in his words, “combines teenage lust with baptism – not equates, you understand, but throws them in the same stew, at least. A potend blend.” (The Independent, Feb. ’94.) Syl Johnson came up with a nasty version of Green’s original (using the same musicians and producer, Willie Mitchell), and Delbert did a fine job with it too. But no one does that dance between the sacred and profane better than Mr. Green. Take Me to the River

J.J. Cale seems to have a real affinity for the river song. River Runs Deep. Mississippi River. River Boat Song. And this next one, Stone River, which stands out as a true rarity in the Cale catalog – an environmental protest song. “They bottled up and dammed it, choked it up and jammed it, killed the life around it and stole it like a bandit.” I think Merle Haggard wrote one of these recently too, but being pissed off comes easily to Merle. It’s nice to hear J.J. slip out of his comfort zone and get worked up about something for a change! Stone River

The river often is used as a metaphor for an obstacle or challenge, and reggae singer Jimmy Cliff works that image beautifully in this next song. Speaking of water metaphors, the tune can be found on one of my desert-island albums, the soundtrack to the gritty Jamaican gangster movie “The Harder They Come.” I wore through the original release from ’72… couldn’t get enough of Jamaican treasures like Rivers of Babylon by The Melodians, Sweet and Dandy by The Maytals, Johnny Too Bad by The Slickers and no less than four classics by Cliff. So I jumped at the opportunity to pick up the two-CD “Deluxe Edition” released in 2003 that includes 18 more reggae essentials (I often play it in the dead of winter as an act of extreme denial). Actually, Many Rivers to Cross isn’t a reggae song at all – it’s more of a simple, plaintive soul tune with strong gospel overtones. And it’s easily one of the most beautiful songs to come from Jamaica… or anywhere for that matter. Many Rivers to Cross

The sound of the swamp is in good hands with bayou bluesman Tab Benoit. He might be standing on the bank, but it sounds to me like he’s getting sucked right into some dark, dirty backwater. It’s from his ’99 album of the same name. For my money, it’s about as good as contemporary blues gets. Check here for Tab’s upcoming gigs and info on his new album that drops on April 3 – “Legacy: The Best of Tab Benoit.” I have a fair amount of Tab in my own collection, so I’m hoping the new release unearths a few lost nuggets for my listening pleasure. Standing on the Bank

Let’s close on a high note with the gospel sound of my favorite harmony singers, The Louvin Brothers. Another old traditional, another river to wash our sins away… Hopefully Neil Young isn’t upstream plotting another senseless act of violence. The River of Jordan

OK, one more… A masterful river song written and performed by French roots-rocker Don Cavalli. We featured it here, but this post practically begs for its return. I like how the videographer creates this sense of foreboding without taking us to an actual river. Why screw up a good metaphor?

Another band from Akron makes it big… “The Blues Snob” is on record as liking this song and this video (should Dan & Pat be worried that they’re getting namechecked for their coolness?).

Saturday Noon: Arrive at LaGuardia with wife, daughter and friend to spend a few days in NYC with other family members. Agenda includes The Black Keys’ sold-out show at Madison Square Garden. Guest list has grown to include 20+ Quines, Auerbachs and friends. Earn spot on road manager’s permanent shitlist.

12:30: Fight off limo drivers to get to cab stand at airport. Head off to big city. Let the games begin: Run Right Back

1 pm: Arrive at apartment in Chelsea. Rep from online rental service tells us to avoid contact with other tenants. If anyone asks, we’re friends of “Bob and Heather” (names changed to protect Dirk and Althea).

2 pm: Buy beer, wine and cereal at Whole Foods Market. Get yelled at by customer for not understanding color-coded checkout system.

2:30 pm: Pick up sandwich and spicy pickle at Murray’s Bagels (essential stop during stay). Head back to apartment and start drinking.

Mary Auerbach

7 pm: Meet other family members at hotel in East Village (only the deranged try to pull off family reunions in Manhattan). Miraculously find restaurant that can accommodate 16 people on a Saturday night: Congee Village. The fact that their food is edible seems like a bonus. Annoy piss out of wait staff.

9 pm: Walk into empty bar on Bowery looking for nice, quiet place where we can chat. Get thrown out because daughter and friend are under 21. On way out, we let bartender know she’s leaving lots of money on table by strictly enforcing NYC’s antiquated drinking laws. She seems glad to see the last of us.

9:30 pm: Plan B – Stop at liquor store, pick up bottle of Bourbon and head over to nephew Geoff Auerbach’s apartment on St. Marks Place. Spend next two hours looking at photos of strange tattoos.

11:30 pm: Make annual pilgrimage to Lakeside Lounge, home of world’s greatest jukebox (including some selections by our friend The Hound). Despite several hours of steady drinking, we’re still too sober to cram into photo booth.

1:45 am: Find cab.

2 am: Provide final instructions to driver re: destination.

Chuck Auerbach

Sunday 10 am: Head over to nearby Starbucks. Spend 10 minutes behind two nimrods who seem to be dumping Scarface-sized lines of Equal into their coffees. Finally elbow my way through, only to find empty pitcher of Half and Half.

10:30 am: Head back to apartment to microwave coffee.

Noon: Begin walking High Line with orderly mob of New Yorkers and tourists. Truly remarkable public space created on former elevated rail line. Wife abandons plan to jog it after slamming into several oversized strollers.

2 pm: Visit Chelsea Market. Load up on espresso in anticipation of long night.

3 pm: Head back to apartment. Lapse into zombie-like state – somewhere between fully awake and comatose.

5 pm: Get carry-out paella (a term you’ll never hear in Akron).

8 pm: Head down to private party for The Black Keys, hosted by Warner Brothers and Nonesuch Records. Specialty drink: the “El Camino” (tequila, hot sauce, ginger, dash of used motor oil). Get usual warm greetings from Pat Carney and his brother Michael. This is a sarcasm-free statement – I love all the Carneys (including ones I haven’t met). Great DJ, dude named Edan. Plays old-school funk like this tune: Sexy Coffee Pot …and even a little boogaloo.

8:30 pm: Daughter’s friend is clearly overserved. Gain new appreciation for NYC’s antiquated drinking laws. Dad leaps into action by grabbing both girls, dragging them to cab, taking them back to apartment, locking several deadbolts on the door and returning to party.

10 pm: Decibel level has tripled. Run into Russell Simmons. Have nothing to say, so I give him deep, soulful head-nod. I’m sure this still haunts him.

11 pm: Head back to Dan’s hotel lobby, where I sit down with his dad, Chuck, and surly road manager. Latter warms up considerably when I describe my own first trip to NYC, during which Chuck takes me to peep show on 42^nd St. I was 15 at the time. Fortunately, Chuck is protected by statute of limitations.

1 am: Call it a night.

Dan's back

Monday, 12:30 pm: Head down to meet Dan, Chuck, Ned Pollack (Chuck’s cousin, proprietor of Ned’s Southside Kitchen in St. Augustine) and Tandy Wilson (owner of City House, one of Nashville’s finest) for lunch at Famous Foods in East Village. Walk about 10 blocks to get there. It amazes me that, although every cab in NYC is showing the Keys’ March Madness video, no one recognizes Dan. Ah, the vagaries of life in big city. Dishes at restaurant are to die for, especially lamb sandwich and salad. Culinary highlight of trip.

2 pm: Catch ride with band back to apartment, since Chelsea is on way to MSG. My rock star moment.

6 pm: Order pizza and begin preparations for concert (e.g. buy six-pack).

8 pm: Walk eight blocks to MSG. Find meeting spot where sister (and Dan’s mom) Mary Auerbach is corralling everyone for trip backstage. We’re in!

8:30 pm: Backstage is practically empty, except for several stagehands who look like they just left central casting for a Martin Scorsese movie. Bartender is surprisingly excited to see us. Obviously, she has no idea what’s in store for her. Party continues.

9:15 pm: Grab seats off to side. Keys’ set kicks in with Howlin’ for You and never lets up. Songs from El Camino sound even more revved-up live. Great show… much love from NYC faithful. Mirror ball during encore seals the deal.

10:45 pm: Return to backstage area, where I run into my new BFF, CBS correspondent Anthony Mason. He wisely chooses not to introduce us to his stunningly attractive wife. We eat pizza while various camera-wielding strangers take pictures of us making spectacles of ourselves.

11:15 pm: With looks of great disdain, burly stagehands inform us it’s time to vacate MSG. We leave without hesitation.

Geoff Auerbach, patrolling backstage area

11:30 pm: Head down to after-party at The Spotted Pig in West Village. Sidle up next to Kings of Leon drummer Nathan Followill at bar. This time I work up enough nerve to introduce myself and wife, who is a huge fan. Ask him if he’s enjoying the evening. He responds that he’s just trying “not to throw up.” I applaud him for his initiative.

12:15 am: Run into Brian Burton aka Danger Mouse as I’m choking down hors d’oeuvre. Introduce myself as I gasp for air. He smiles in a withering sort of way as I sulk back to little-kids table. Is it rude to refer to supermodels as “accessories”?

1 am: My daughter meets Aziz Ansari, star of hit show Parks and Recreation. She asks him if he thinks her friend looks just like Amy Poehler. He says “yeah, I see it. You’re both white.” Best line of trip.

2:30 am: With flight back to Ohio approaching, we flag cab back to apartment.

Tuesday, 9:30 am: Time to blow this popstand. I say goodbye to tenant next door, noting that Bob is in recovery and Heather has run off with several circus freaks. We beat hasty retreat back to Akron.

Some photos (the good ones) by James Quine.

A gaggle of Quines (and significant others), backstage at MSG

Steph & Dan, no doubt admiring photo above

Season 5 of Mad Men kicks off on March 25. Seems like a good excuse to revisit a post that asks the important questions: Would Don Draper approve of the Big-O jingle? And, can one company bring happiness and harmony to our community?

Don Draper: ad genius

Those of us who live in Northeast Ohio often use simple catch-phrases as shorthand for big, sprawling topics. “The Drive,” “The Fumble” and “The Shot” elicit the usual sad, knowing looks as we reflect on several decades of heartbreak and misery involving our major sports teams. “Burning river” is used to boil down a host of environmental issues. And “The Buzzard” gives us a handy “two-fer” – describing an annual sense of renewal in the town of Hinckley (where the turkey vultures return each March) as well as a radio station that played bad rock in the Eighties.

The editorial team here at Rubber City Review would like to add another catch-phrase to the list – the “Big O.” And I’m not referring to those crappy commercials that equate sexual fulfillment with the act of shopping online for overstocked merchandise.

I’m talking about the greatest advertising jingle ever used to flog a product. No, let me rephrase that – used in an attempt to create a new world order, based on one company’s vigilant efforts to bring a little taste of sunshine and happiness to people who desperately needed both.

First, a little background on that company: Lawson’s… Its humble roots date back to 1939, when one J.J. Lawson opened a small store at his dairy plant in nearby Cuyahoga Falls. Lawson’s eventually became a chain of convenience stores, mostly in Ohio, that was owned and operated by Consolidated Foods. Then the corporate picture got a lot murkier, with the typical parade of mergers and acquisitions and name changes (if you want the sordid details, go to Wikipedia).

The thing I like the most about Lawson-Japan is its corporate philosophy (and I’m not making this up): “Happiness and harmony in our community.” That’s a lot to expect from a convenience store, isn’t it? But maybe the good folks at Lawson-Japan were inspired by this nugget of wisdom from Don Draper, the creative centerpiece of the show Mad Men: “Advertising is based on one thing: happiness. And do you know what happiness is? Happiness is the smell of a new car. It’s freedom from fear. It’s a billboard on the side of a road that screams with reassurance that whatever you’re doing is OK.”

Or, a banner in the office that reads “Happiness and harmony in our community.” But enough with the corporate jibber-jabber. Let’s get right to the good stuff… Here’s the mac-daddy of jingles – dramatically embellished in this commercial that seemed to run non-stop on Cleveland TV back in the early Seventies:

Is it true? Did they really make it up here in 40 hours? Did one man really sleep while the other one drove? How fresh was that stuff? Or, as Draper might ask, does it really matter? It’s like he told the guys at American Tobacco: we can say whatever we want.

Maybe the more important question is, does it make you happy? I was with family and friends at a party a while back and we found ourselves reminiscing about the Big-O jingle. (Here’s another Draperism: “Nostalgia… It’s delicate, but potent.”) Before long, we were singing the whole damn thing at the top of our lungs – and of course, we knew every precious lyric.

Happiness and harmony, achieved.

I haven’t had much contact with my famous nephew since The Black Keys conquered the world. Just the occasional text about someone I should check out, like Michael Kiwanuka or Bombino. So, like anyone who takes a few minutes out of the day to live vicariously through someone else, I’ll do the occasional google search to see what the boys are up to.

That led me to a brief interview in the Boston Phoenix in which Dan reveals his undying love of Link Wray:

“He was a huge influence… I still have all of my guitar amps turned sideways because when I saw him play he turned his guitar amps sideways, because it was so loud, and you would hear the ambient sound of the amp and not just the direct speaker sound. I thought that made a lot of sense. Plus, the amps aren’t blasting the audience in the face, which I think is really good, too. When I saw him, it was one of the greatest shows I ever saw in my life. There was a vocal mic and he didn’t say one word; he got onstage and started ripping through songs, and 40 minutes later he was done. Everybody was screaming for an encore, and he never came back — it was amazing.”

And that reminded me of a promise I’d made a couple of years ago to one of RCR’s earliest supporters, Joscha from Germany: At some point, I’ll get off my ass and do a post on Link Wray.

Then I started digging around on the interwebs for some Link-related items and came across a sprawling, six-part tribute by Jimmy McDonough, who first published the piece in the online music magazine Perfect Sound Forever (which also did a great post on Robert Quine, another Link Wray freak). As an interesting aside, the McDonough piece was highly touted at Link Wray’s official website, wrayshack3tracks.com – a site that expired on March 1. Yes, my friends, hundreds of websites dedicated to the Kardashians, and Link Wray’s official site is no longer available (note: looks like it’s back up and running – see comment below). Welcome to America, 2012.

Before I get to the music, I should point out two things about McDonough’s article I found very interesting – mainly because they seem to strengthen the link (sorry, couldn’t resist) between Link and Dan.

Thing 1: “He lived in a dimension of his own and would pretty much remain there – decades later, musicians would tell tales of rehearsing with Link only to have it abruptly end, Wray’s eyes glued to the TV, the guitarist lost in an episode of Batman.” Granted, Dan is far more focused during his own musical projects, but he definitely has a unique way of checking out of the world (and people) around him to follow his own muse.

Thing 2: “Fan and friend Bobby Morris, AKA Widmarc Clark, was amazed at how influence-free Link seemed, despite his awareness of players like Chet Atkins and Merle Travis. ‘Link was an experimenter. I never recall him playin a riff from those guys and sayin’, This is what I learned, because he just had a headful of it himself. He didn’t have a bit of trouble thinkin’ of a chord progression that sounded different and good. That’s just how he was born. Link was gifted.’” So it goes with Dan – born with a gift, restless experimenter, human hook machine. Even on the Junior Kimbrough tribute “Chulahoma,” he’s incapable of slavish imitation. Every song draws from the Hill Country blues tradition but seems fully formed in the here and now.

And now, the music…

Rumble… the song that started it all. That bad, bold and beautiful sound that inspired virtually every rock guitarist who followed (or at least the ones who mattered). And to think that the restless experimenter Link came across that sound by using a pen to poke holes in his amp’s tweeters. One of the great moments in modern music, like when Paul Burlison dropped his amp and broke a tube… or when his bandmate Johnny Burnette first let loose with one of his blood-curdling screams after backing into his guitarist’s lit cigarette. Rumble

Link lost a lung from a bout with tuberculosis, but you wouldn’t know it from the way he manhandles this Jimmy Reed original. I love how he gasps for air right before the chorus – a truly dark and demented touch… which of course is why we keep coming back for more. Ain’t That Lovin’ You Baby

Jack the Ripper – a masterful slice of menace from 1961. This cut worked its way into one of the few Richard Gere films worth watching, Breathless (video below). The song features Wray and his longstanding trio – brother Doug on drums, Brantley “Shorty” Horton on bass – at the peak of their powers. As Horton’s successor, bassist Richie Mitchell, pointed out, “There was somethin’ about the sound of those three guys that nobody could ever get again… You could play the same notes as Shorty played, but it was just somethin’ about the chemistry between those three people. They had an early original rock sound that was all theirs.” (McDonough, Perfect Sound Forever.) Jack The Ripper

Link did have a lighter, more playful side, and you can hear it on this cut from “’They’re Outta Here,’ Says Archie” – a collection of tracks that were shelved in the late ‘50s by Archie Bleyer, president of Cadence Records. Bleyer scored a hit with Wray’s Rumble, but decided that the rest of the songs intended for a Cadence LP would have a corrupting influence on teenage youth. Maybe the song Patricia was an attempt to meet Bleyer halfway… but apparently it still had just enough sleaze in it to scare off the label’s dipshit boss. Patricia

Here’s a grinding, blues-based tune that Dan covered during his 2009 solo tour, when he was backed by the great Texas band Hacienda. In the show I saw in Cleveland, Hidden Charms was the closest Dan came to playing an honest-to-god, four-on-the-floor blues number. And he was clearly inspired by the filth and fury of Link’s original. Hidden Charms

If you’re looking for a truly depraved example of Link at work, go no further than this stunning number from ’62. It was released under the name Ray Vernon & the Raymen (a nod to his brother Vernon, an aspiring pop singer who chucked it all to play a more essential role as Link’s producer and engineer). There’s absolutely nothing respectable about this song – from the drunken jackhammer rhythm to Link’s completely unhinged guitar. Maybe Bleyer was right… At the very least, wait until Junior’s voice changes before you expose him to this one. Big City After Dark

When it came to his music career, Link almost consistently made bad decisions – from signing with unsupportive labels to turning all his finances over to his brother Ray (Vernon), whose daughter Sherry inherited Link’s publishing company after Ray took his own life. At least Link could count on auteurs like Quentin Tarantino, John Waters, Robert Rodriguez and Breathless director Jim McBride to keep his music in front of the masses. But I still can’t figure out why the blazing instrumental Ace of Spades didn’t show up on the soundtrack to Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction. Even when Link seemingly caught a break, he couldn’t make it work to his advantage. Ace of Spades

More than a few of Link’s songs incorporate some exotic touches, including various tributes to his American Indian heritage (his mother, Lillian, was a full-blooded Shawnee) and lounge-flavored numbers like Patricia. This next cut combines a cha cha cha rhythm with a Malaguena-influenced chord progression. Of course it all comes out sounding like Link Wray music, which is a very good thing. Pancho Villa

One of Dan’s favorite albums is “Wray’s Three Track Shack” – Link’s “Big Pink” moment. In other words, much like The Band did back in ’68, Wray holed himself up in the country to come up with his own vision of Americana. But don’t cloud this vision with thoughts of guitar-strumming troubadours playing gauzy, sensitive tributes to rural life. Wray’s homespun recordings at the family farm in Accokeek, Maryland, were as rough and ready as his favorite switchblade – including this number covered by The Neville Brothers on their 1990 release “Yellow Moon”: Fire and Brimstone

When I first latched on to Link Wray’s music back in the Seventies, I assumed he was this strange, shady figure from England (he spent his last years in Denmark, so I wasn’t that far off). I actually was shocked to find out he grew up in Dunn, North Carolina, without a pot to piss in… that he was a lifelong teetotaler… and that he was very religious, in a God-fearing, fundamentalist sort of way. Wray kept rockin’ til the end – he toured America in 2005 before passing away that year from heart failure at the age of 76. Here’s a cut he recorded in England when he was 60, sounding like the youngest guy in the room. The Wild One

Link Wray live in England, probably ’96 or ’97, which puts Link in his late-60s… I’m sure there are better-quality live videos out there, but I love the way he prowls the stage like a mad hyena and literally snuggles with the crowd (knocking his guitar out of tune – a minor distraction):

From the movie Breathless… Richard Gere channels Link Wray as he steals a car to pick up his girlfriend.

Over the past year, I pulled all my music gear out of cold storage and started playing in bars again. Which wasn’t as difficult as it could’ve been, since I only took a two-year hiatus. But my chops were real creaky in those first few gigs – and I’m still not back to that level where I could hold the attention of a small gang of drunk bikers.

I’m now playing in a band called The Steelheaders, sort of a loose collective of songwriters and ex-folkies who tend to view every song through blues-colored glasses. So our set lists are filled with semi-acoustic tunes that wouldn’t sound out of place at the Newport Folk Festival back when Dylan was pissing off all those Woody Guthrie fans. In fact, we probably would’ve been a decent opening act for Dylan – not old guard, but not as amped-up as Mike Bloomfield and Al Kooper were when they backed Bob in ‘65. And the gig is certainly more age-appropriate for someone whose ears are still ringing from years of amp-related abuse.

I’m also doing something I’ve always wanted to do, which is play the same club every Thursday night. If someone can’t make it, no big deal. Just drag in another picker or make do without. But showing up at the same dive week after week creates a comfy, living-room vibe… that “just among friends” feeling that leads to a whole lot of screwing around. Wanna play a hillbilly version of Hey Joe? Sure, why not. Forgot the lyrics to Folsom Prison Blues? Go look for them in your guitar case while we hold this intro for another five minutes. Bass player’s trashed? Hey, look who just walked in the door…

One of the great pleasures of this setup – other than free drinks and the opportunity to play with some damn good musicians and friends – is that I get to crank up a few of my favorite tunes in between sets and at the end of the night. So I have my own little focus group (basically four other band members, the bartender/owner, the songwriter/chef, and the small handful of friends/relatives who happen to show up that night) to find out if anyone other than me likes this mess of songs on my iPod.

Well, following several months of extensive, highly analytical research, the focus group results are in. Here are the clear favorites:

OK, you’ll probably think, here’s Tim flogging the boogaloo thing again. But “Sabroso: The Afro-Cuban Groove” is, hands down, the best collection of said genre (and a few related strains, like mambo and salsa) I’ve ever come across. And every time I put this on, people come up and practically beg me for a copy. One guy said it kind of reminded him of “lounge music, but real ballsy.” Every cut is essential – well, except for one, which is a little too lounge-y (the curiously named Undress My Mind by Ocho). But consider the rest of the lineup: Willie Bobo, Tito Puente, Mongo Santamaria, Ray Barretto, Joe Cuba… a murderers’ row of Latin soul. If your date doesn’t like this stuff, dump the chump. Hong Kong Mambo/Tito Puente

It’s only appropriate that a band called The Steelheaders would admire a band called The Steeldrivers. And although the latter lost two standout musicians featured on this cut – singer/songwriter Chris Stapleton and mandolin player Mike Henderson – the Nashville-based bluegrass band is still going strong with a new lineup. Thankfully, that lineup includes fiddler Tammy Rodgers, who also is one hell of a harmony singer as evidenced by this next cut. Grammy-winning sensation Adele covered this song on her Live at The Royal Albert Hall DVD (see video below), and you also can find it as a bonus track on an import version of her album “21.” Put this on at your local dive and watch hardened barflies cry like babies. If It Hadn’t Been For Love

At least four or five of our Thursday-night regulars are hard-core J.J. Cale fans. So it really doesn’t matter which one of his albums I play (and I have most of them), his stuff always gets that knowing, glassy-eyed look that seems to say, “Thank you for reminding me of the copious amounts of controlled substances I smoked/ingested back in the Seventies.” To be honest, as much as I love his first few albums, I rarely play them – mainly because the CD versions sound like shit (and nobody’s stepping up to remaster “Naturally”). I know… heresy. My turntable’s broken, and I’m partial to J.J.’s last few releases. Hey, it’s not like he’s doing anything different 40 years down the road. Same laid-back voice, same stunning guitar, same throwaway lyrics… just recorded a lot better. Fancy Dancer

Here’s another bit of heresy: I like to hear other people sing Tom Waits’ songs… well, maybe not William Shatner, but definitely a grizzled blues veteran like John Hammond. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Waits himself produced this 2001 release that also featured Charlie Musselwhite on harp, Augie Meyers (of Sir Douglas Quintet fame) on keyboards and accordion and Larry Taylor (ex-Canned Heat) on bass. It’s a brilliant melding of trash-can rhythms, vintage blues riffs and Hammond’s weathered howl. He seems right at home working this spooky, apocalyptic vibe and squeezing every ounce of menace from Waits’ fractured songbook. In fact, he’s never sounded better… just ask the regulars at our spooky, apocalyptic bar. 2:19

It’s just past midnight, and a little past my bedtime (sorry, I can’t keep up with you coastal hipsters). Time to slap on some “pack up your shit and have one for the road” music. Nothing frantic or hurried… We need something to wind everyone down and send them home safe – not across the street where all those Red Bull-guzzling, dubstepping zombies hang out. I’ve got just the right song, one of several slow-groove instrumentals I’ve pulled together for this very purpose. It features three giants of soul jazz: Willis Jackson on tenor sax, Brother Jack McDuff on the B3 and Bill Jennings on guitar. So listen to one more story about the guy with the monkey, move slowly away from the bar, give everyone a big hug and call it a night. Mr. Jackson is ready to tuck you into bed with sweet dreams of blinking party lights and bubbling Wurlitzers. Just don’t forget to wake up before the owner locks the door. Please Mr. Jackson

Here’s Adele’s take on The Steeldrivers’ If It Hadn’t Been For Love… For this reason alone, consider me a fan:

The Swan Silvertones

Back in this post, we featured a carefully selected playlist of songs best suited for Sunday mornings, when godless ingrates like me are busy reading the Times and sipping artisinal coffee. Now there’s the word of the moment: artisinal. Want to charge an extra $5 for a loaf of bread? Call it “artisinal.” In fact, consider this blog artisinal – lovingly crafted by small, swarthy people who live in caves. By the way, is it pronounced ar-TEASE-in-al? And do you really want to emphasize the “tease” in a word that promises untold quality at twice the price?

But again, I digress… As we pointed out a couple of years ago, that playlist was designed to accompany Arts and Leisure, not necessarily to instill a sense of religious fervor in the faithful. No, I saved those tunes for this post – a sampling of songs by a few of our favorite gospel artists. So put down the paper, crank up the laptop, get your ass off the couch and spread some joy… even if the congregation amounts to a fairly jaded spousal unit and a few nervous pets.

The Georgia Sea Island Singers spread their unique brand of joy around the world. But the Gullah tradition they celebrate – formed in the coastal plains and islands of Georgia and South Carolina – is largely one of isolation. It’s an African-American heritage in the truest sense of the term, with songs, dances, stories and a uncommon dialect that grew out of a cultural collision of the American South, West Africa and the Caribbean. Their music is mostly a capella, call-and-response gospel, and one of the form’s greatest performers was Bessie Jones, a native of Smithville, GA. Bessie was “discovered” by folklorist Alan Lomax, who recorded this song on St. Simon’s Island in 1960. You can find it on an amazing collection of rare and beautiful gospel songs on the Dust-to-Digital label: “Goodbye, Babylon.” O Day

One of the biggest gospel hits from the renowned catalog of Specialty Records was a novelty tune by Cleveland native Wynona Carr. She was signed to the independent label in 1949 by its owner, Art Rupe, who elevated her to the title of “Sister” hoping that some of Sister Rosetta Tharpe’s mojo would rub off on his new artist. In Sister Wynona’s Biblical baseball game, Temptation is on first, Sin’s on second, Tribulation’s on third, Satan’s on the the mound, Solomon’s the umpire and Ryan “The Hebrew Hammer” Braun is up to bat… OK, I made that last one up. Actually, J.C.’s standing at home plate “just waitin’ for you to come in.” So don’t slide home with your spikes up. The Ball Game

Bobby Womack

Wynona left gospel behind and joined Reprise Records (the home of Frank Sinatra) in ’61 – roughly the same time that fellow Clevelander Bobby Womack was starting to hit the gospel circuit with his brothers Friendly (Jr.), Cecil, Harry and Curtis. The Womack Brothers soon caught the attention of the great Sam Cooke, who signed them to his own label, SAR Records. The brothers cut a few gospel sides before transforming themselves into The Valentinos and recording such secular pleasures as Lookin’ for a Love (later covered by The J. Geils Band) and It’s All Over Now (a #1 UK hit in ’64 for The Rolling Stones). Of course Bobby Womack went on to become a soul/funk legend – and a favorite of Rubber City singer Chrissie Hynde. But back in ‘61 he was just one of five brothers from Cleveland trying to carve out a gospel career with sanctified tunes like this one: Couldn’t Hear Nobody Pray

Let’s head out of Cleveland and over to Chicago, where the Highway Q.C.’s were building a reputation as one of gospel’s most fearsome acts. The group earned its place in the gospel firmament by graduating Sam Cooke, Lou Rawls and Johnnie Taylor into the secular mainstream. By the end of the ‘50s all those giants were long gone, but the Q.C.’s managed to carry on admirably with the soulful voice of Spencer Taylor (no relation to Johnnie). In 2010, Taylor and band celebrated 65 years of spreading sacred music around the world – and I think (correct me if I’m wrong) they’re still performing today. The Q.C.’s had a big influence on a young Bob Dylan, who first heard them at his home in Hibbing, MN, by dialing in the powerful signal of Shreveport’s KWKH. Here’s a song Zimmie might have heard back in ’59 (from a Mojo magazine compilation called “The Roots of Bob Dylan”): Working on the Building

Brother Claude Ely

What can you say about Brother Claude Ely that our friend The Hound didn’t already cover in this piece? It’s hard to imagine this voice came out of a white hillbilly preacher… he sounds like he could’ve jumped right in with the Q.C.’s, the Womacks, the Swan Silvertones or any one of the great black gospel acts of the last century. Simply put, this dude could flat-out sing, and he clearly had the spirit too. As we made the case a couple weeks ago with Moon Mullican, when it comes to raisin’ the roof on a church or a Texas roadhouse, don’t rule out the pudgy white guy. Do You Want To Shout

You might be familiar with Robert Randolph as a mainstay on the jam-band circuit (maybe the only artist in that vein that gets my blood pumping). Let’s not forget Randolph came out of the sacred steel tradition, which started in the ’30s in House of God churches throughout the eastern U.S. as black pedal steel guitarists began to mimic the Sunday choir. If you really want to get right with god, check out one of the wonderful sacred steel compilations on the Arhoolie label that capture mind-blowing performances (a few featuring Randolph) at several churches and the first-annual Sacred Steel Convention in Winter Park, FL. Randolph eventually gained far greater fame with revved-up rock albums featuring his Family Band. But he returned to sacred ground with his 2001 album “The Word,” featuring keyboard player John Medeski (Medeski, Martin & Wood) and the North Mississippi Allstars. Here they burn through an old gospel standard: I’ll Fly Away

With all the much-warranted fuss over The Blind Boys of Alabama, it’s easy to forget these guys had some serious competition the next state over. In fact, The Five Blind Boys of Mississippi might pre-date the Alabama group – although the latter’s big voice, Clarence Fountain, has said that both groups were named at a gospel contest in ’48. Regardless, both are essential to the southern gospel tradition, with The Blind Boys of Alabama doing their best to keep the spirit alive today. But the most exciting and powerful blind boy might have been the Mississippi group’s lead singer, Archie Brownlee. He’d shout, scream, stomp his feet and even throw himself offstage in a state of religious fervor (the first crowd-surfer was a blind man??). Here’s a taste of Brownlee and The Five Blind Boys of Mississippi, circa 1959: My Robe Will Fit Me

Let’s close with my favorite gospel song of all time, by The Swan Silvertones. It starts with a plaintive guitar, then goes into a slow burn that builds and builds until it explodes with the heavenly falsetto of one Claude Jeter, who makes Prince sound like a first-time sinner. If this doesn’t move you… well, I got nothin’ else for you. Wanna watch some funny cat videos? Mary Don’t You Weep

Here’s a great vintage clip of The Blind Boys of Alabama… Clarence Fountain conquers all evil on this one:

I’m a bit of a “completist,” but only with a few select artists. For example, I don’t need all 1,000 songs that Lightnin’ Hopkins recorded throughout his career. Just give me a little bit of this (the Herald Sessions), some of that (3-4 releases on Prestige and Bluesville), a couple of those (Aladdin, Gold Star, Arhoolie, etc.)… and I’m pretty well set.

Not the case with Miles Davis. The first time I heard his masterpiece “Kind of Blue,” I wanted it all. I wanted to hear everything even remotely like it… I wanted to hear all the steps he took to get there… I wanted to know how he managed to follow up on such an amazing piece of work… I wanted everything, and I wanted it now.

Well, that was some time before Columbia Records decided to release virtually every sound – including more than a few conversations – that he recorded in the studio. And even if those treasures were available to me at the time, I never would’ve been able to afford them (“The Complete Columbia Album Collection”: $237 on Amazon… and that doesn’t include the many alternate takes on the other Columbia box sets).

But damned if I didn’t end up with virtually everything he waxed all the way through the Columbia years. His earliest recordings with Charlie Parker. The Birth of the Cool. The Blue Note years. Almost all of the Prestige recordings. And yes, everything in the same zip code as “Kind of Blue.” As my sister Keena likes to say, “how do you have the time to listen to all that shit?”

Now subscription services like MOG and Spotify have spoiled all the fun by making these and other recordings readily available at one or two clicks of the mouse. But that’s OK. I’ve been listening to all this “shit” for years (as Miles himself would probably call it, or worse… read his very profane autobiography). And although I don’t pretend to be an expert, I definitely have my favorites in the Miles discography.

You’ll notice I don’t touch on electric Miles or the “comeback” years (basically everything after his ’81 release, “The Man with the Horn”). Actually, I hung tough with a lot of Miles’ electric stuff – especially “Bitches Brew” and “A Tribute to Jack Johnson” – and even found a few things to like with his pop-drenched comeback albums. But in my mind, the consistency of his brilliance drops off dramatically in the thick of his funk period, and even more during his comeback. Sorry, I’ll never equate All Blues with a cover of a Cindy Lauper song, no matter how well the latter is executed.

We’ll start with Bag’s Groove, by vibraphonist Milt Jackson. It’s one of those classic jazz compositions – instantly recognizable, often covered. Hard to beat the original, though, as Miles and Jackson were joined on the ’54 session by Thelonious Monk. An essential slice of jazz history. Bag’s Groove

I’m a sucker for soul jazz, and Miles practically invented the form with this extended workout from ’54. Horace Silver sits in on piano (I’m sure this composition set the stage for his many soulful Blue Note originals) and Lucky Thompson creates a smoky, late-night vibe on sax. You know you’re onto something special when at 13+ minutes it still seems a little short. Walkin’

Miles played this next jazz standard throughout his acoustic period. This version was recorded during one of two legendary sessions for Prestige (May 11 and October 26, 1956) that closed out his contract with the label. The band more than lived up to the title of the album “Cookin’” – it featured John Coltrane on sax, Red Garland on piano, Paul Chambers on bass and Philly Joe Jones on drums. Is there anything more beautiful than the sound of Miles playing a ballad through the Harmon mute? My Funny Valentine

I included this in a previous post, but it bears another listen… many more, in fact. It’s one of 10 compositions by Miles on the soundtrack to the 1958 Louis Malle film “Ascenseur Pour L’Echafaud (Lift to the Scaffold).” Words like “searching,” “timeless” and “moving” don’t do justice to the opening of this song. I’m reminded of Sam Phillips’ famous description of Howlin’ Wolf: “This is where the soul of man never dies.” Generique

Here’s one of the coolest arrangements I’ve ever come across. The basic theme is a series of quick, stabbing notes – almost James Brown-like – that leads into a layered section featuring some wonderful interplay between Miles and his sax men, Coltrane and Cannonball Adderley. And that leads to some inspired soloing by all three (Cannonball kicks things off with great flair). If I could play jazz, this would be on the set list. Milestones

Exhibit A from the greatest jazz album of all time. If you have it, you already know what makes it special. If you don’t own it… OK, I’ll be nice this time. Just get it. All Blues

“Sketches of Spain” – the ultimate “let’s give this dive a little class” album. Miles and composer/jazz pianist Gil Evans realized the potential of their previous collaborations on this stunning release from 1960. My favorite moments are near the very end, in the 12-minute closer Solea. Drummer Jimmy Cobb starts crackin’ the rim, the orchestra locks into a Latin-flavored rhythm, and Miles dances around it like a matador toying with his prey. Solea

Miles dedicated this next tune to his longtime producer Teo Macero. Drummer Jimmy Cobb lays down a circular rhythm, and then Miles works his magic – jabbing it, caressing it, letting it breathe. Coltrane adds a gorgeous solo too. Deep stuff… from Miles’ ’61 release, “Someday My Prince Will Come.” Teo

Many critics prefer Miles’ performances from December 1965 at the Plugged Nickel in Chicago, where his second great quintet (with Wayne Shorter, Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter and Tony Williams) began deconstructing many of the standards he’d been playing for years. I’m partial to his live recordings at the Blackhawk (1961), simply because Miles sounds every bit as sharp as the fine threads he wore onstage. In his autobiography, Miles bitched about Hank Mobley’s sax playing during the Blackhawk dates. Normally I’d defer to the master, but Hank sounds pretty damn good to me on this outing. Neo basically is a jacked-up version of Teo, with pianist Wynton Kelly driving the rhythm a lot harder than he does on the previous cut. Miles’ playing on both is magnificent. Neo

The best performances of the second quintet are like great abstract paintings. Individual solos no longer really matter; keys and rhythms float away too. I stop listening for Miles or Shorter or any semblance of form or structure and just let the sound wash over me… the sound of five kindred spirits heading off into the great unknown. Masqualero

I’m not sure how long this video will stay up on youtube, so enjoy it while you can… Miles. Coltrane. Live. Opening number from “Kind of Blue.” This is why we live.

Alright, just one word for you this week: Bombino!

Alright, I lied… just a few more words. Special thanks to nephew Dan and our good friend Rick Saunders for turning me on to Omara “Bombino” Moctar (sorry I missed a few of your posts, Rick… won’t let that happen again!). Deep Saharan blues with lots of swagger. Bombino brings to mind the great Malian guitarist Ali Farka Toure, but he’s jackin’ a Strat through a Marshall amp. In other words, he’s young and fearless and making me forget all about that Knopfler guy (another influence; Hendrix and Hooker are in there too). You’ll be hearing a lot more about Bombino down the road. In the meantime, check Deep Blues or Afropop Worldwide for bits and pieces of his remarkable backstory. Here’s a slice from Afropop:

“Agadez is a town in the north of Niger. When the off-and-on Tuareg rebellion in that region of North Africa surged again in 2007, the town became a conflict zone. The young guitarist/singer/songwriter Bombino had his first band up and running at the time, but when two members were killed, he fled to Burkina Faso. These experiences – rebellious guitar music, sudden outbursts of violence, flight, nomadism and separation from home and loved ones – are all part and parcel of the Tuareg rock experience.”

You also can go here to order “Agadez, the Music and the Rebellion,” a documentary about the Tuareg culture of the Sahara Desert (I believe the first and third videos are from the film). You’re welcome.

They called him the King of the Hillbilly Piano Players. I like to think of Moon Mullican as one of the lost heroes of rock ‘n roll – a vital link between R&B piano pounders like Amos Milburn and early rockers like Bill Haley and Jerry Lee Lewis who owed a huge debt to the Moon songbook.

Some of Mullican’s recordings from the ‘40s and ‘50s sound like Bob Wills with a bad attitude. Others rank among the best rockers of the era, especially this tune from ’56 that was covered nearly 30 years later by Moon admirer Nick Lowe on his album “The Rose of England” (here Mullican is backed by the red-hot Boyd Bennett & His Rockets): Seven Nights to Rock

He also had a flair for country ballads and Cajun-flavored stomps like Jole Blon and Jambalaya, a tune Mullican co-wrote with another famous protégé, Hank Williams, to get around a contractual arrangement with Cincinnati-based King Records. Virtually all his recordings qualify as essential American music – a potent brew of country, blues, western swing, Cajun, rock, pop… and maybe a few other strains related to his Scottish-Irish heritage.

He’s on that long list of notable blues-based musicians from the great state of Texas (although he seemed to have a greater affinity for neighboring Louisiana, where he toured and recorded with eventual governor Jimmie “You Are My Sunshine” Davis). Born Aubrey Mullican in 1909, he grew up on the family farm in Corrigan, some 90 miles north of Houston. That’s where he first was exposed to the blues and, more specifically, a black sharecropper named Joe Jones, who showed him a few tricks on guitar and probably laid a few songs on him too. Aubrey’s father – a devout, church-going man – didn’t share his son’s appreciation for the devil’s music. But dad had the good sense to bring an old pump organ into the house, which his son used to play ill-gotten tunes that you can’t find in the Sunday hymnal. (When later asked why he played the piano, Moon replied: “Because the beer kept sliding off my fiddle.”)

With a big, booming voice and promising musical chops, Aubrey left for Houston at the age of 16 and began sitting in with western swing bands that borrowed heavily from the Texas roadhouse blues and jazz tradition. By the end of the ‘30s, he had built a fearsome reputation as a one-man wrecking crew on piano – not to mention his taste for booze, which probably earned him the moniker (short for “moonshine”?) that stuck with him throughout his adult life.

One of Moon’s many employers during the decade, western swinger Cliff Bruner, soon recognized his piano player’s distinctive voice and tagged Moon to sing lead on Truck Driver’s Blues – a ’39 hit that paved the way for one of my favorite sub-genres of country and honky tonk: Truck Driver’s Blues Within a few years Moon was fronting his own band, the Showboys, and honing a more hard-driving sound that would inspire a small army of rockers in the Fifties and beyond.

This brings us to the golden age of Moon – the dozen years (starting in ’46) that he recorded for Cincinnati-based King Records. Much like Eddie “Cleanhead” Vinson, Roy Brown, Wynonie Harris and other post-war R&B stars, Moon could rock every bit as hard as Elvis did at Sun Studios in the mid-50s. The only difference being that an older, pudgier and far-less-sexy Mullican never received the recognition he deserved. Here’s aural evidence that Moon belongs in the pantheon of early rockers: I Done It

As we discussed back in this post, King proprietor Syd Nathan had a great ear for the kind of music hard-working folks from the south wanted to hear when they landed up north in big-city factories. Many of them were partial to blues (particularly jump-blues) and hard-core honky tonk. So Mullican definitely fit the bill on both fronts.

Nathan also had a knack for cross-pollinization. Even though he largely segregated his artists by creating “race” labels like Queen, Federal and De Luxe for his black R&B stars, he would get the most out of his publishing catalog by having someone like Harris, for example, cover a song by King honky-tonker Hank Penny (Bloodshot Eyes). And it worked both ways… One of my favorite cuts by Mullican is this hard-charging remake of a song originally recorded by R&B legend Tiny Bradshaw. For my money, Moon’s version packs more of a punch (with the help of blazing solos by Speedy West & Jimmy Bryant): Well Oh Well

Moon scored a few hits for King, including Jole Blon, Sweeter than the Flowers, and the culturally insensitive Cherokee Boogie (later covered by Asleep at the Wheel and BR5-49). He also developed a larger audience as a member of Nashville’s Grand Old Opry, playing on the program’s nationally syndicated radio broadcasts.

(From left) Iowa DJ/country artist Smokey Smith, Lefty Frizell and Moon

But the glory years didn’t last long. For reasons I alluded to earlier, Moon’s modest star was eclipsed in the ‘50s by the first wave of young, brooding rockers like Elvis, Gene Vincent and Eddie Cochran. Few of them credited Moon, but Jerry Lee remained a loyal supporter, even covering one of Mullican’s signature songs, I’ll Sail My Ship Alone (a number one country hit for Moon back in ’50): I’ll Sail My Ship Alone/Jerry Lee Lewis

After he left King, Mullican recorded some sessions in ’58 and ’59 for Coral Records (released on the long-lost “Moon Over Mullican” album). Although he gamely tackled some of his old rockers like Pipeliner Blues, the sessions were marred by the unfortunate presence of the Anita Kerr Singers. As Phil Davies notes in his Rockabilly Hall of Fame profile of Mullican, “it’s a pity Moon didn’t take them back to a sweaty beer joint in Beaumont… they’d have run a mile.”

Mullican showed up on the charts one last time with a lively remake of his original Ragged But Right, but an onstage heart attack in ’62 slowed him down considerably. Overweight (and often overserved at the bar), Mullican suffered a major coronary on December 31, 1966, and died the next day. Two years later, Kapp Records released an album of sessions produced in the early ‘60s by Cowboy Jack Clement. “The Moon Mullican Showcase” quickly disappeared into obscurity, as did most of Moon’s recordings.

In his book “Country Music, U.S.A.,” music writer Bill C. Malone describes Mullican’s legacy as the guy who brought “a new style of playing to country music, the barrelhouse style pioneered by itinerant black juke joint musicians… Mullican featured a melodic-based, boogie style of playing which was designed, in his own words, ‘to make the bottles bounce on the tables.’ Mullican’s piano playing, combined with his zestful singing, made him one of the most colorful personalities of southwestern country music.”

You can find Mullican’s grave at Magnolia Cemetery in Beaumont, Texas. His epitaph? I’ll Sail My Ship Alone

Moon on video… Here he barrels his way through a quick medley – Pipeliner Blues and St. Louis Blues:

And here’s a spirited rendition of Rock and Roll Mr. Bullfrog (with a little schtick he probably stole from Al Jolson):