Rubber City Review

Alright, guitar fans. I know all of you have your favorite examples of six-string nirvana – Derek & the Dominos, The Allman Brothers Band at Fillmore East, Stevie Ray Vaughan’s first album, Jeff Beck’s “Blow by Blow,” blah, blah, blah… But here’s one you’ve probably never heard.

The album: Chico Hamilton’s “The Dealer,” released on the Impulse! label in 1966. The guitarist: a 23-year-old Larry Coryell, making his recording debut. The bandleader: a legendary jazz drummer who started playing back in the late-‘30s in L.A. with his high school classmates Dexter Gordon, Charles Mingus and Illinois Jacquet.

Technically, “The Dealer” is a jazz album – but it stretches the meaning of that term at every turn. A couple of songs are in that riff-based, soul-jazz vein that the Blue Note label mined so well back in the Sixties. One is a fairly straight-ahead blues, at least the kind that you’d hear a classic organ combo play. Another takes a left turn into “psychedelic jazz” – because you couldn’t swing a dead, or stoned, cat back then without hitting a song aimed at that vast new audience known as the American hippie.

Rumor (aka Wikipedia) has it that Rolling Stones guitarist Mick Taylor was a big fan of Coryell’s playing on this album. And to help prove the point, I’ve combined samples of solos from “The Dealer” and “Sticky Fingers.” First, you’ll hear Coryell launching into his break on For Mods Only (did they have to make the swinger reference so obvious?). Next, you’ll hear Taylor’s playing on the jazzy second half of Can’t You Hear Me Knocking. Given that Taylor appropriates big chunks of Coryell’s solo, I think it’s safe to say he spent a lot of time between ’66 and ’70 hooked on “The Dealer.” For Mods Only/Can’t You Hear Me Knocking

But the most startling moments on the album are right out of the gate, as Coryell makes a huge statement on the title cut. It’s the only jazz solo I’m aware of that sounds completely indebted to early rock ‘n roll – specifically, Chuck Berry. Coryell’s playing on this tune gets my attention every time it randomly shows up on my iPod. Clearly, he misspent much of his youth woodshedding along to rock and blues records… then he probably migrated to some Wes Montgomery, and maybe Django too. But all of these influences seem to come together organically – sorry, can’t think of a better adverb here – in Coryell’s loose and playful solo. The Dealer

As you can tell, Coryell also isn’t afraid to take his playing a little outside too. But he does it in a way that doesn’t sound the least bit calculated. I like how this next solo starts out fairly conventional and then devolves to the point where Coryell’s almost off the fretboard altogether. And Chico, another restless explorer, eggs him on with a few well-placed cracks of the snare. Now this is my idea of free jazz… Thoughts

Just when you think Coryell’s completely off the rails, he settles down and pulls off some pretty convincing blues licks. Although he’s credited with “writing” the next tune, it’s really not much of a composition – just a basic organ-combo workout that you could hear in countless inner-city clubs back in the Sixties (check this for more on the glory days of the B3). And he had the cojones to name the thing after himself, with a nod to another fearless wanderer… Larry of Arabia

If all this jaw-dropping guitar weren’t enough, the 1999 release of “The Dealer” on CD includes four bonus tracks from other sessions featuring the great Hungarian-born jazz guitarist Gabor Szabo. A master of the second-note drone and other exotic flourishes, Szabo was a big influence on Carlos Santana and many other Sixties rock guitarists (Santana used his original, Gypsy Queen, as the coda to Peter Green’s Black Magic Woman). Here’s Szabo strutting his stuff on El Toro… El Toro

Coryell went on to a successful career playing in a number of settings, including jazz-rock with his band The Eleventh House (can’t say I’m a fan; I prefer one of his more acoustic outings, which we touched on here). Approaching his 90^th birthday, Chico currently teaches at The New School for Jazz and Contemporary Music in New York City and occasionally tours with his band Euphoria. He played in Lena Horne’s band… scored music for film and TV… recorded with Rolling Stone Charlie Watts… mentored more contemporary rockers like former Spin Doctors guitarist Eric Schenkman and Blues Traveler John Popper… and, for my money, almost stole the show on the HBO documentary “The Jazz Baroness.”

I’m sure both men look back at “The Dealer” as a defining moment – a near-perfect start for Coryell, and a high point in Hamilton’s successful run as a bandleader in the Sixties, often with the popular Charles Lloyd on sax and Szabo on guitar.

We’ll close it out with Coryell playing some very Wes-like runs on this ballad, written by Chico and arranger Jimmy Cheatham… Baby, You Know

Chico in 2009, Live at Borders… When I’m 88, I’d like to have a steady gig at the local bookstore (but I’m assuming such establishments won’t exist when I’m that age).

In my recent post on guitarist Robert Quine, I pulled together a few personal stories while carefully sidestepping any attempt to define his musical legacy. That’s better left to those who can speak with a lot more authority on all of the disparate influences that came together in downtown NYC in the mid-‘70s – punk, new wave, no wave, avant garde… I’m sure someone will argue that I’m already using the wrong terms here.

Art Garfunkel, The Boxer

I can’t even lay claim to my favorite Rob story. According to his friend The Hound (whose blog is listed at right), Rob was once punched in the face by Art Garfunkel when Rob told him that his act with Paul Simon was “for people too dumb for Bob Dylan.” So my cousin may have been the only person on the planet (other than Simon, maybe) who could say he was sucker-punched by Art Garfunkel.

My post on Rob certainly gave me a greater appreciation of the size, scope and reach of his output over 35 years as a working musician. And sometimes it takes an unexpected source to really drive it home – like the jolt of hearing Rob’s jagged guitar closing an episode of HBO’s fine new series, “How To Make It In America.”

Now that CD box sets are going the way of the cathode-ray tube TV and, well, the CD, it seems unfortunate that Rob’s career never got the full box treatment. I mean, the German Bear Family label delivers a 12-CD set of the “Singing Ranger” Hank Snow, and we got bupkis on Quine? OK, maybe that’s not a good example – I’m just the kind of nutball who would plow through 12 CDs of Snow.

But a stray comment following one of The Hound’s posts on Rob got me thinking, what would even the most basic compilation of his stuff sound like? Just a quick look at Rob’s discography would scare away even the most disciplined producer. Recordings with Lou Reed, Tom Waits, Richard Hell, Lydia Lunch, John Zorn, Marianne Faithfull, Brian Eno, They Might Be Giants, Lloyd Cole, Matthew Sweet… full-bore rockers, experimental soundtracks, atmospheric instrumentals, catchy pop songs, off-kilter blues and R&B… How could anyone create a seamless, cohesive listening experience out of this body of work?

Maybe that’s not the point. You could certainly separate the pop/rock stuff from the soundtracks and instrumentals, but you’d still be jarred by sudden shifts – from low-fi to high-quality production; from gentle, airy soundscapes to angry squalls of distorted guitar. But why should listening to a Quine compilation be any different from a conversation with a guy who could go from Link Wray to Miles Davis in 10 seconds flat?

I won’t even try to offer the definitive list of Rob’s essential recordings. But I have a few favorites that should be part of any meaningful attempt to capture the high points of Rob’s career, and I’ve included samples to get the argument started.

Most worthwhile box sets start with those early, formative recordings – think The Band (aka The Hawks) with Ronnie Hawkins. And we now have a few good ones featuring Rob, courtesy of his old friend and bandmate, Barry Silverblatt, and posted by The Hound here. Back in the Sixties, Rob and Barry played together in a band called Bruce’s Farm. This solo from a cover of the Kinks’ Where Have All The Good Times Gone offers ample evidence that Rob already had his chops together before he hit NYC (excuse the sound on this one). Where Have All The Good Times Gone/Robert Quine solo (Bruce’s Farm)

Recorded in 1977, Blank Generation by Richard Hell and the Voidoids is an undeniably great record. And it underscores a comment Rob made to The Black Keys’ Dan Auerbach (another cousin): “Everything I do is just a variation on Chuck Berry.” He was only half-kidding. In some of his rock ‘n roll solos, Rob seems to take the same basic licks that Berry used to great effect on his classic hits and turn them inside-out, almost beyond recognition. Almost.

The next sample starts with Chuck Berry’s solo on Thirty Days and moves to Rob’s playing on Love Comes In Spurts. Is it just me, or does Rob sound like Berry trying to play one of his signature solos while getting zapped by a bad amp? Thirty Days/Chuck Berry + Love Comes In Spurts/Richard Hell and the Voidoids

Most of the critical praise is heaped on Rob’s recordings with Lou Reed, and that probably has as much to do with Reed as it does with Rob. I sampled two favorites in my last post – Betrayed (“Live in Italy”), because Rob’s convoluted country solo seems to be a tip of the shades to ace string-bender James Burton, and Waiting For My Man (“A Night With Lou Reed”), from a filmed performance at the Bottom Line in 1983. Rob’s playing on the latter is as potent as anything I’ve heard from any guitarist… simply brilliant. In the video at the end of “Encounters,” Rob’s first solo starts at around 2:00, and he comes back in at 3:40. Here’s another standout cut from the Lou Reed era, The Gun from “The Blue Mask.” The lyrics set the dark mood, but the tension builds with Rob’s sinister fills. A lesson in how to serve the song… The Gun/Lou Reed with Robert Quine

Move to 1984… I’ve always liked this number from Rob’s collaboration with drummer Fred Maher, “Basic.” I’m not exactly sure what he’s doing here, but it’s a fairly unusual chord progression – maybe something that rubbed off when he took jazz guitar lessons from the great Jimmy Raney. And he’s adding a little dissonance with a few well-placed overdubs. So it’s one of those “something doesn’t sound quite right, so it must be right” numbers. The programmed drums come across as a bit dated, but not heavy handed. Is he re-imagining the Sixties from a more cynical time and place? Maybe, but it sounds heartfelt to me. ’65/Robert Quine and Fred Maher

The next year, Rob teamed up with Rolling Stone Keith Richards, fellow Akronite Ralph Carney and others to record “Rain Dogs” with Tom Waits. Rob only appears on two cuts – Blind Love, featuring some fine interplay between Rob and Richards, and Downtown Train, which eventually became a monster hit for Rod “The Bod” Stewart. Rob’s contributions on the two songs are fairly minimal, but his insistent rhythm on Downtown Train was picked up on the remake by Stewart’s guitarist, Jeff Golub – another Akron native. This is starting to get complicated… Downtown Train/Tom Waits with Robert Quine

Now we get to Rob’s first and only appearance on a bona fide hit – as guitarist on Matthew Sweet’s Girlfriend, a Top 10 single in 1991. I’d argue it features some of the most dangerous guitar playing ever heard on hit radio. But I’m family… you be the judge: Girlfriend/Matthew Sweet with Robert Quine

Rob had finally rubbed up against some mainstream success and recognition. So what did he do next? Play even more obscure and challenging music, of course – including an ongoing collaboration with avant-garde composer and saxophonist John Zorn. Here’s a 1995 duet with fellow NYC guitarist Jody Harris (who Rob described as “tragically underrated”) from a compilation titled “Come Together: A Guitar Tribute to the Beatles” – Rob’s guitar is the dominant voice on this sample: Yes It Is/Jody Harris and Robert Quine

Rob had an especially productive year in 1997. He contributed to a few albums by Zorn, worked with Marc Ribot on Ikue Mori’s “Painted Desert” (sampled on my previous post) and took part in what he described as his most positive experience in the studio – “Valdun: Voices of Rumantsch” by Corin Curschellas. Rumantsch is a rare language spoken by only a few thousand people in the Alpine valleys of Switzerland. But Corin’s music approaches almost mainstream pop, which makes this an unusual outing for Rob. I like his relaxed, expansive playing on this number from “Valdun”: Al Mar/Corin Curschellas with Robert Quine

I’ll close with a recording Rob did in 2001 with legendary R&B showman and pulp author Andre Williams. After he burned his way through this one, Rob reportedly said, “Now I’ve worked with two geniuses, Lou Reed and Andre Williams.” Head First/Andre Williams with Robert Quine

So those are just a few of my favorite Rob moments… and they’re certainly not based on an encyclopedic knowledge of his recorded oeuvre, as the Times might say. I’ll also fully admit that I came across a few cuts that didn’t move me at all.

I’m just a guy who plays broke-dick guitar, paying tribute to a true master – an underrated one at that. And just a single-disc compilation from an enterprising label (Nonesuch, are you listening?) would help right that wrong.

Robert Quine with Matthew Sweet on the Dennis Miller show – 1992… workin’ that whammy bar. Former Gang of Four bassist Sara Lee is on the other side of the stage. You’ll have to suffer through about 30 seconds of Miller being a dipshit (turn up the volume on this one).

From the same show – Sweet’s I’ve Been Waiting. Rob was a huge fan of The Byrds, so this was like tossing raw meat to a junkyard dog.

Big week for The Black Keys – “Brothers” is the Number 1 new rock album in the country (Soundscan)… Number 3 overall if you count “Glee” – which is exactly what you’d expect if you brought a high school glee club into a studio to cover hoary rock hits – and “Exile on Main Street,” which the Stones spent a small fortune promoting. So congratulations, Dan and Pat… an amazing achievement that may have missed the attention of the local press, but now is gaining notice throughout the RCR blogosphere (mainly, those of you who didn’t get the email from Dan’s mom).

Oh, they also played the Letterman and Jimmy Fallon shows. Here’s the Letterman performance of Tighten Up, followed up by the “official” video of the song, which is easily one of the funniest music videos I’ve ever seen:

Bluesman Little Walter was the troubled genius of Chess Records.  But when it came to just plain crazy, it was hard to top Walter’s label-mate, Bo Diddley, who recorded some of the most demented sides in rock ‘n roll history.  A half-century later, those recordings still manage to startle us… Bo’s Guitar

Here Bo’s band locks into a groove that could have easily gone on for another 15-20 minutes at a typical Fifties juke joint. Pretty Thing

These two songs alone make the case that Bo — who signed his name “The Bo” and was referred to by The New York Times as “Mr. Diddley” — was the most original of all the early rockers.  He clearly shared Walter’s restless spirit and drive; a constant need to test the very limits of his equipment… and his audience.

Like the vast majority of people on this planet, I never had a chance to see Little Walter perform.  But I did play with The Bo – me and about 10,000 other bar-band veterans around the world.

You see, it became standard practice for the original rock royalty like Chuck Berry and Bo to hire pick-up bands in various towns to back them up for their gigs.  It went something like this: Bo’s manager would call a local promoter, who would recommend a local band, and said band would spend several hours (or days, depending on the band’s level of confidence) rehearsing Bo’s tunes – with no idea what Bo would unleash on them when he hit town.

Well, our band (The Warsaw Falcons) got the nod for several of his gigs in the Cincinnati area, and the first one was a custom car show at the old Cincinnati Gardens in 1983.  We figured that Bo would show up early and spend about an hour with us going over the set list and running through a few tunes.  No such luck.  We met Bo about 10 minutes before the gig, and the only direction he provided was telling our hapless drummer not to play the patented Bo Diddley beat (if you’re not familiar with it, please exit our site now)… “Only I play that beat, buddy!”

Things went better than expected, though, as Bo quickly whipped us into shape by barking out a few commands during the opener.  And we hung on tight for the rest of the set, doing our best to follow his every move and not get in the way.  It was an unsettling experience, looking out at an audience of classic cars on the floor of the Gardens (“I’d like to dedicate this one to that pretty little Chevy in the third row”)… but it was a huge thrill for me to play with the one and only Bo.  He even brought me to the front of the stage and made me kneel down – the only time I’ve ever done that outside of church.  I felt like I’d joined the sacred order of Bo sidemen… sort of the blues equivalent of the Masons.

It was also the only time anyone asked for my autograph (at least in a deep and meaningful way).  Apparently, a few of Bo’s overeager fans thought we were part of his traveling extravaganza, rather than semi-employed schlubs who only lived a few miles away.

We did two more gigs with The Bo – including one opening for The Temptations at Miami University.  The absolute best part of that experience was drinking beer in our dressing room and hearing the Temps warm up in the room next door by singing their hits a cappella.  Needless to say, we all wept openly.

The Bo with The Warsaw Falcons, 1983

Bo never had much to say to us.  He was bitter about the small amount of money he made from his hits while the next generation of rockers made millions.  And he would’ve rather been back home in Florida than feeding white folks’ hunger for nostalgia.  But he snapped out of character long enough to make me the butt of a very elaborate joke involving a baby peeing itself (when the punch line came, he squeezed a wet paper towel hidden in his fist, and the water ran over my outstretched palm… many laughs at my expense).

The Bo left this world on June 2, 2008, but his beat goes on in hundreds of bars on any given Saturday night.  I’ll leave you with these few examples of his power and glory… Amen!

Here’s a video clip of Bo in his prime, working out on You Can’t Judge A Book By Its Cover with the very sexy Duchess on second guitar (clearly he was ahead of his time by sharing the stage – back in the early Sixties, no less – with such a strong and capable woman!)…

The Warsaw Falcons’ intrepid sound man taped our gig with Bo right off the board.  But given the 26 years that have gone by since our 50 minutes of fame, I wouldn’t call this hi-fidelity.  Still, it’s worth sharing.  Here Bo gives a shout-out to all his main men and women from the Fifties (including himself!): Bo Testifies

This might be my favorite Bo artifact… Since he never brought his own amp with him, he always was at the mercy of someone else’s crappy equipment.  Apparently, he didn’t care much for my Fender Twin! Jack It Up

Greetings from Carefree, AZ… where they like to point out “it’s a ‘dry’ heat.”

I’m using this brief respite from the Rubber City as an opportunity to read yet another book about an important musician – even though I’ve gone far beyond the recommended lifetime quota for such books.

Unfortunately, I can’t recommend any of them to people who don’t share my obsessive-compulsive approach to American roots music.  Because once you strip away the “who played with who, what label, which session, who produced, what instruments/amplifiers/accessories were used, how impaired were the players, which substances were abused”… there’s really not that much left to talk about.

But as a service to my readers who aren’t inclined to care about such things, I’m offering this layman’s guide to a few of my favorites:

Hope that helps…

I’ve just finished “Blues with a Feeling: The Little Walter Story,” by Tony Glover, Scott Dirks and Ward Gaines.  And this one’s an especially tough read for those who have only a passing interest in the world’s greatest harmonica player.  It’s stuffed with details on virtually every session that featured Walter as a leader or sideman – not to mention countless gigs where he at least showed up to play (Walter was notorious for letting other harp players take over in the middle of his gigs so he could go somewhere else to drink or get high, or both).  But once again, I’m hooked… and I can’t believe it took me this long to read about the single most innovative and influential bluesman that Chicago ever spawned.

I’ve played blues harp in bar bands for years.  I learned by ear when I was a teenager, playing mostly bluegrass with my brothers and fumbling along to third-generation blues tunes covered by rock bands like The Allman Brothers Band and Derek and the Dominoes.  The latter’s version of Walter’s “Key to the Highway” is perfect for harp neophytes – nearly 10 minutes of the same chord changes, a steady mid-tempo groove, and no flashy harp player to discourage you. Key to the Highway — Derek & The Dominos

But like any self-respecting blues hound, I eventually decided it was time to sniff out the hard stuff, so I borrowed a Little Walter album that kept staring at me when I’d visit my sister – a two-record set that had this bizarre illustration on the cover of Walter in a tux, standing in front of what appears to be a shipwrecked bar.

But this record was the motherlode for aspiring harp players.  And if you felt the least bit insecure about your playing when you dropped the needle on this one, you’d surely toss your harmonicas out for good after hearing Walter’s unbeatable tone and technique.  Here’s one of my favorite solos from Walter’s own recordings… My friend Andy calls it one of his “runaway riffs” – a good way to describe Walter in full flight. Mellow Down Easy

Walter’s powerful instrumentals seemed to openly mock his competitors – a useless exercise when you consider he really didn’t have any peers.  And his stuff sounds just as fresh and vital today as it did when he first shook up the blues world back in the 1950s.

He saved some of his best riffs for tunes he recorded with Muddy Waters, and my favorite is his solo on Muddy’s I Just Want To Make Love To You.  I’m amazed he pulled this one off – it’s so outside and alien, light years ahead of what anyone was putting down in Chicago at the time.  Maybe there’s a reason he named one of his instrumentals Flying Saucer… On this one, it sounds like he beamed himself into the studio, straight from the spaceship. I Just Want To Make Love To You — Muddy Waters

Walter’s own singles became jukebox standards – both the instrumental Juke and the hugely popular My Babe hit number one on the nation’s R&B charts.  And he soon eclipsed Muddy as the most popular artist on the Chess Record label.  In the book, harp player Billy Boy Arnold tops the blues academics in describing Walter’s appeal: “…a girl told me once that ‘Little Walter sound like a hipped-up Muddy Waters,’ meaning the same music, just hipped up some – and she described it right.  He was just wailing, he was a swinger; a lot of beautiful solos.”

Of course, fame can be fleeting, and Walter soon was standing in the shadows of the new rock ‘n roll artists who were taking over the Chess studios – especially Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley… although “The Bo” (as he liked to call himself) and Walter had great respect for one another and even recorded the following classic together: Diddley Daddy — Bo Diddley

Walter was a rough character who seemed to literally fight his way through life.  He was beaten up by more than a few racist cops, but also stepped into a number of scrapes he could’ve easily avoided, including several with jealous husbands.  He eventually succumbed to full-blown alcoholism and died in 1968 when one too many blows to the head sent a blood clot to his heart (“Blues with a Feeling” includes at least seven or eight wildly different accounts of Walter’s last scuffle).

The book’s epilogue offers this sad and sobering look at Walter’s demise: “Maybe when he saw how fleeting the fame and fortune was, he lost respect for his own gift – and for himself. And once he began his prolonged downward spiral, circumstances and his own choices seemed to conspire to bring it to its inevitable conclusion.”

Walter on Disc:

If you’re starting to search for that two-LP set, rest easy — there’s plenty of Walter available on disc…

In a more perfect world, every new homeowner in America would receive a free copy of Walter’s “Best” — part of the Chess 50th Anniversary Collection.  Hard-core fans can dive into “The Complete Chess Masters: 1950-1967,” a five-disc, 126-track set on Hip-O Select.  However, it includes a number of duds and alternate takes and none of the 50-plus prime cuts Walter recorded with Muddy Waters and Jimmy Rogers.  But Walter was a jazzman at heart and never played the same solo twice, so the alternates can be supremely rewarding for more dedicated listeners.

Given the fact that Walter lived and played on the edge, there are few surviving videos showing him in action.  I’ll leave you with these two.

The first is a nice, if brief, career overview that played at his 2008 induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (oddly enough, as a sideman)… You can find it here.

The second appears to be the only available video on youtube of Walter performing live, with Hound Dog Taylor in Europe (1967).   Now I’m a big fan of both Walter and Taylor, but they weren’t the most compatible musicians.  Walter was an avowed disciple of jump-jazz great Louis Jordan, while Taylor clearly modeled himself after the far-raunchier Elmore James (for prime Hound Dog, check out “Release the Hound,” which includes live cuts recorded at various Cleveland dives).  In several interviews, Walter didn’t hide his disdain for Taylor’s down-home style.  But the video remains a fascinating look at two great bluesmen, playing it the only way they knew how.

Next up: “Me and The Bo,” or how I survived my brief stint as a Bo Diddley sideman.