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.

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

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.

I’m a blues hound… won’t deny it. Love the form’s many sub-genres and permutations. Hate most attempts to slap a little rouge on its cheeks and make it more presentable to the masses. You can have your Jonny Langs and Keb Mos. Give me John Lee Hooker, alone with his guitar – and please find a way to remove all those special guest artists from his final recordings.

On more than one occasion, I’ve run into a distinguished-looking gentleman wearing one of those painfully casual outfits who claims to love blues too. But he’ll offer this information in a very solemn and private way, like he’s confessing he has a family of illegal aliens living in his basement.

Fact is, he’s told me nothing… Did he just see B.B. King at the outdoor amphitheater while getting hammered on cosmos with Buffy, Bif and Lillian? Or does he like to drink bottom-shelf liquor by himself and listen to the stream-of-consciousness blues that Robert Pete Williams recorded in Angola Prison? Doesn’t make much difference to me what he likes… I just think that extra bit of information would be helpful before we continue the conversation.

As Duke Ellington pointed out, “There’s two kinds of music: good and bad.” So it goes with blues – there’s a lot to like and almost as much to avoid. And I try to judge all comers on their own merits. I don’t knock Robert Cray for trying to sound like the second coming of Stax-Volt. Some of his best stuff comes close enough. But don’t bring me any of Clapton’s last 20 or so releases, and if you buy me Buddy Guy’s latest for my birthday, save the gift receipt.

The real reason I stick with the form is the universe of expression within it. You’ve got your city blues and country blues… hard-driving Chicago blues and laid-back Piedmont blues… full horn sections and one guy with a mic… fife and drum bands from the Mississippi hill country… flame-throwing guitar slingers from Texas… piano pounders from New Orleans and Kansas City… shouters… crooners… howlin’ at the mooners… maybe there’s a blues song in there somewhere?

Which brings us in a very roundabout way to one of my favorite sub-genres, swamp blues. Before I came across this mutant form, I thought I had a pretty good understanding of blues. I had faithfully purchased and analyzed the Muddy Waters and Robert Johnson box sets, viewed the “Live at Newport” videos, read the books, even learned a few of the songs myself… Then Slim Harpo came along, openly mocking my earnest attempts to become a blues scholar.

At this point, it’s probably useful to ask, what is swamp blues? First, it’s a form of Louisiana music that should not be confused with the state’s other vital and distinct contributions to American music – including Dixieland, New Orleans R&B, Cajun and Zydeco. Second, it’s largely the product of a small studio in Crowley, Louisiana, where one J.D. “Jay” Miller created regional hits for the Excello label, run by Ernie Young in Nashville. In other words, another one of those haphazard cultural collisions that makes Southern roots music so damn good.

Swamp blues is what you’d expect when a self-taught producer reinvents the dominant Chicago sound in a small Louisiana town – lazy, loping rhythms, casually soulful singing, and a do-it-yourself approach to recording technology (or lack thereof). Check out this cardboard-box rhythm on a tune by Lightnin’ Slim: Mean Old Lonesome Train/Lightnin’ Slim

Many artists made the pilgrimage to Louisiana rice country to record at Miller’s Crowley studio, including a small army of curiously named bluesmen like Mr. Calhoun, Shy Guy Douglas, Whispering Smith, Guitar Gable and Boogie Jake. Miller also launched the careers of several outstanding blues women – most notably the great piano player Katie Webster, who did session work on legendary swamp blues and pop recordings like Phil Phillips’ 1959 hit, “Sea of Love.” Here’s Katie with her own take on the hit… Sea of Love/Katie Webster

Crowley today: "Where Life is Rice and Easy!"

Let me get right to the point, by sharing with you a short list of my favorite swamp blues recordings (samples at the end for your listening pleasure):

Slim Harpo: I Got Love If You Want It. This tune seems to encompass everything that’s right and wonderful about swamp blues. I’m not sure how to describe the rhythm – it’s like the second-grade teacher gave the kids a few shakers and sticks and asked them to play a mambo. Then there’s the harp, which ain’t Little Walter but makes one hell of a statement at the opening. The acoustic-sounding guitar serves only one purpose – to move the song from I to IV to V. And Harpo’s voice brings it all together with his usual, laconic delivery. A blues masterpiece.

Lightnin’ Slim: It’s Mighty Crazy. John Hammond Jr. did a great version of this song back in ’75, but the original can’t be beat. Miller’s Cajun background must’ve led him to suggest the rub-board rhythm. Lazy Lester gives the tune its signature riff. And Slim’s gritty voice adds just enough menace to make you wonder just what he’s rubbin’ on. I think we all know it’s something other than a good scrub in the bathtub.

Lonesome Sundown: My Home is a Prison. Apparently, Miller liked the opening guitar riff to this song – it shows up on several other cuts by Lonesome Sundown (aka Cornelius Green). Sundown played guitar for Zydeco legend Clifton Chenier before joining Miller’s stable of artists in 1956. Released the following year, this tune is about as blue as blue can get… “It’s true I shot my baby, but it’s because she did me wrong. The only thing I got is this lonesome jail I call home.” Maybe Sundown was haunted by the dark muse behind this song… He eventually became a minister in the ecumenically named Lord Jesus Christ of the Apostolic Faith Fellowship Throughout the World Church.

Lazy Lester: I Hear You Knockin’. Not to be confused with the New Orleans nugget by Smiley Lewis that adds the line “but you can’t come in.” This is one of those blues songs with near-universal appeal, easily making the transition to rock and honky tonk (check out Dwight Yoakam’s version from “Buenas Noches from a Lonely Room”). Sounds like the rhythm section consists of that same cardboard box they used on Mean Old Lonesome Train. Legend has it that Lester met Lightnin’ Slim on a bus and talked his way into a recording session at the Crowley studio. We can all be thankful for that conversation.

“Rockin” Tabby Thomas: Hoodoo Party. The New Orleans influence is especially strong on this cut by Tabby Thomas, father of contemporary blues artist Chris Thomas King and former owner of Tabby’s Blues Box and Heritage Hall in Baton Rouge, LA. Great rhythm and horn part, and Tabby’s fine voice is practically swimming in Miller’s patented reverb. Louisiana blues doesn’t get any better than this – a testament to Miller’s genius in the studio.

Jerry “Boogie” McCain: She’s Tough. Jerry’s girl is so hot, she walks through campus and “professor lose his mind.” But she can’t hold a match to McCain’s blazing harp, which sounds like it could burn the whole place to the ground. McCain obviously inspired the Fabulous Thunderbirds, who included this song on their 1979 debut. And the pride of Gadsden, Alabama, is still playing the blues today. You can check him out at the city’s annual Jerry McCain Broad Street Blues Bash (now that’s how you honor a blues legend!). I Got Love If You Want It It’s Mighty Crazy My Home Is A Prison I Hear You Knockin’ Hoodoo Party She’s Tough

I should’ve included this in the first post… great clip of The Rolling Stones playing Slim Harpo’s Shake Your Hips (but without Mick on harp). Filmed live inside the Rialto Theater in Montreux, Switzerland – May 21, 1972, right after the release of the Stones’ classic “Exile on Main St.”:

“A lot of people think the blues is depressing, but that’s not the blues I’m singing. When I’m singing blues, I’m singing life. People that can’t stand to listen to the blues, they’ve got to be phonies.” RIP, Etta James (check here for a great blues cut by Etta).

Caroline, Dan and Mary at the Grammys

My sister Mary Auerbach, French teacher at Woodridge High School and mother of The Black Keys’ Dan, gives us a blow-by-blow of her recent trip to the Grammys, where the Keys picked up a little hardware for the trophy case.

So, not being a tweeter or much of a social networker, I’ve decided to use my brother’s blog to respond to all the wonderful Akronites who’ve asked, what’s it like to be at the Grammys? (The “GRAMMY Grammys,” as my friend Julie put it.)

Let’s begin in the middle – and if you want to really hear about all my lame preparations in anticipation of attending this year’s Grammy ceremonies, you can catch that on my facebook page.

When our son Dan and his bandmate Patrick of The Black Keys were nominated for four Grammys this year, my half of Dan’s parental unit decided it might be a nice idea to actually attend the ceremony in Los Angeles. My husband Chuck opted out of the garish event, deciding to remain true to the alternative roots of our son’s band, even though the doting dad had predicted a Grammy eight years ago. I decided to attend with my sister Caroline and her two girls, Hazel and Pearl.  A girls’ weekend for a mom who has four brothers and two sons. Yippee!

Hazel and Pearl, Grammy-bound

Preparations aside, let’s just say that after two months of gearing up, I found myself with two days off my teaching job, flying to 80-degree LA on the day before the Grammys, fresh from the slushy streets of Akron and the crunchy ice that’s been underfoot for seemingly a lifetime. I was immediately blinded by the intensity of… what do they call it? Oh yes. The sun. I was literally blinded. So much so that this seasoned international traveler found herself immediately at the wrong baggage carousel – and in the wrong terminal! None of the airport staff could help me, but my younger sister (from Boulder CO) not only found me but picked me up in her rental car and ferried me to the proper place. My lone bag was sitting in the “found luggage” room and god knows how I had found it. Welcome to LA.

I got a Grammy schedule from Dan’s manager, and we GPS’d our way to the boutique hotel in West Hollywood where Dan had reserved a suite for us. “What suite?” they asked. “Oh, for today, not tomorrow?” Four hours later we moved into our rooms, and god knows how they found a suite at the last minute on Grammy weekend. “God knows how” became the catch-phrase for our stay.

We proceeded (very fortunately, it turns out) to front-load ourselves with food. And where was Dan? Meeting with a “megastore” – the first of many business-related responsibilities he had warned me about. Our post-arrival lunch spot, just around the corner, was chosen by Dan’s very foody wife Steph, in an effort to get us off to a good start in LA. But the charming little cafe was so jammed with customers and fast-moving, tray-laden waiters that we literally cowered against the walls (for an hour, with a three-year-old in tow) and opted for take-out. Then we hoofed it back to the hotel in time to gobble it down in our rooms just before leaving for – early dinner. My capable sister had set up reservations in the only nearby restaurant that was offering them, at the only time available. We met up with my younger son Geoff (renamed “Thank God for Geoff” after the weekend) and his girl Katie, who cruised over in a convertible they had rented. We had arrived. We had eaten. We were ready for Grammy day. Possibly the longest day of my life.

Geoff and Katie

The front-loading ended with room-service breakfast on Sunday. Dan and daughter joined us. Then it was time for “hair and make-up” for Dan and Steph. We girls did our own hair and make-up, in which I had been diligently tutored by fashion-minded friends in Akron. My hippie sister winged it, and her girls needed no help whatsoever. We carved aside an entire hour to get dolled up, and then set off at noon for the three-hour pre-show, which would be immediately followed by the three-hour telecast. That’s more than six hours of interminable self-congratulation and waiting around! We brought our books and of course several pairs of shoes, jammed into a giant bag. My friend Ann had advised, “Don’t you dare wear flats. Just bring a bottle of 800 mg. ibuprofen!” I also threw in a bag of almonds… We were ready for a long day.

As you all know by now, Grammy night is all about spectacle. A two-man band from Akron is not exactly spectacle. The event organizers decided to shave off as many awards from the telecast as possible in the search for continually higher ratings. Gaga! Bieber! Mick! Bring ‘em on. In the meantime, the four categories for which the Keys were nominated would be dealt with at the “pre-show,” held next door to the Staples Center. We were hoping, though, that perhaps the Alternative Rock Album award might find some broadcast time. In fact, at one point during the handing out of 98 Grammys at the pre-show, Dan’s publicist excitedly told me that award had been moved to the telecast. No such luck.

Instead of paying $60 for a taxi, we took our rental car to the LA Convention Center, where the parking lot required a permit. So of course we started to whine as we searched for side-street parking within high-heel range of the center. Caroline soldiered on, making a U-turn into a place marked “Barney’s Warehouse Sale Parking.” It was a practically empty parking garage under the far side of the center. We were almost afraid to ask if we could park there for the Grammys, but the attendant sheepishly waved us in. He knew the $100 parking lot on the other side was a total rip-off. He just forgot to tell us we needed to be back by 8 p.m.

We hiked through the Center – several football fields’ worth of hiking – to the back door of the pre-show theater. “Thank God for Geoff” met us there with tickets in hand and bullied the five idle scanner guys into getting us in the back door. “Look at all those shoes,” one of them said.

Brothers

Arriving late at the pre-show, we found a grinning and daffy Mike Carney, who had just won a Grammy for the design of Keys’ “Brothers” album. He had endured the podium acceptance and the media room grilling and was still somewhere on a cloud. He needed a hug. I fulfilled my duty as a surrogate parent.

Our entourage was seated quite far in the back of a very dark room. We weren’t allowed to bring a camera… curses! Dan and Pat showed up in tuxedos, and their young ladies were stunningly beautiful. Steph was over six feet tall in high heels. Brother Geoff wore his tie in a “Merovingian” knot – like the evil twins in the Matrix, he said. Keys’ management was hovering. Would Mike win a Grammy, and not the guys whose album he’d designed? But they won two – and we cheered wildly as they went up to the podium, reminding me of the many graduation ceremonies I’d attended where that sort of thing was frowned upon. Other band entourages stomped out. Wildly dressed people swarmed about. Country singers with guitars brocaded on their tuxedos stood out. I met the great bluegrass musician Del McCoury, who Dan had performed with on Friday night at the Troubadour. And my heart went out to Neil Young, who was there to pick up his first music Grammy. Unbelievable.

But where was the food? Water bottles everywhere, but nothing to eat. And my feet were starting to hurt. I decided to stick with the flats (sorry, Ann) for the trip to the Staples Center for the telecast.

My God, the Staples Center. Hazel and Pearl took off to explore and peek at outfits, and Geoff and Katie left for a brief drink with friends. We all badly needed a break and couldn’t attend the red carpet at 4. Caroline and I stood around outside, wondering why the doormen (and women) were so insistently herding people indoors. Were they taking their duties too seriously? Bizarre outfits, seas of long dresses, even kimonos flowed past us. Rappers in massive suits, someone in five-inch platform tennis shoes. Still, no food in sight.

Del McCoury, Grammy nominee

Caroline and I had taken the more expensive tickets and left the rafter seats to the others. Our special seats had a special entrance, but it took us awhile to get there through the crowd. The auditorium was gasp-out-loud huge. It was packed with people hurrying to their seats. Huge screens with moving graphics only made us feel dizzier. Where were Geoff and the girls? The doors were closing! We were being locked in the Center with no food! No one could leave and return, and no one else could enter. But the rest of our group made it in at the last second. It was 4:45 and the telecast was about to begin, hence the herding. I reached for my bag of almonds while watching the people in the box seats eat all the food they could handle.

Dan, Pat and Mike were dragged to do some red carpeting, but their luscious ladies were barred. What up with that? Dan especially liked Jimmy Kimmel. His Mexican waiter interviewer (a Kimmel show regular) was about to ask a question when he saw Kim Kardashian. He ran off after her, leaving the boys staring at an empty mic. Ah, the Grammys.

I must say I was nicely distracted by the spectacle, and we were never bored – annoyed at times (Bieber, anyone?), but not bored. I don’t tweet, but I texted almost continuously to give my Akron family and friends one degree of separation from the Grammys. Brother Tim was having a viewing party with Chuck, and I sent him a few photos taken by my lame phone camera (which he of course tweeted right away). The light show was astounding – and, as reported, almost seizure-inducing for the band Arcade Fire. Cindy Lauper made her way to Dan’s row just before a performance started. She was forced to crouch down, so Dan briefly offered her his seat. And that’s how Steph appeared on the telecast, clapping with Lauper after one of the acts. I hope it wasn’t Bieber.

Screen shot of Steph, Cindy Lauper and Ray Lamontagne on TV

The stage production was amazing, and from farther back it was really magical. Hundreds of people would scurry backstage to set up during commercials, with never a hitch. Megastars who typically don’t take orders from anyone arrived exactly where and when they were needed. Despite a few minor screwups – like Christina Aguilera almost falling off the stage and the Avett Brothers mic stand falling over – the whole event had a Cirque du Soleil-like precision and flair.

Sheer screens, flames, people hoisted into the air, Lady Gaga’s egg thingy… It was all pretty astounding. My favorite act was the intense Eminem, with Rihanna flowing gently on a film screen above him. But the most amazing thing was the sound. Not even the best home theater could possibly capture the effect of being that enveloped in sound. The place was huge and it literally vibrated, but without killing your ears.

We stuck it out until the very end, then remembered how hungry we were. Dan was long gone, and Geoff left shortly after him (probably had a nose bleed) but made sure we were on the guest list for the Warner Records party.

The next hour was spent trying to find a street entrance to our parking lot (the upper entrances were locked shut after 8 p.m.). So we were late for the after-party and, at that point, close to starving. Some celebrities, having fulfilled their record company obligations, were already leaving. Thankfully, someone met us at the door with sliders and a fizzy wine drink. I scarfed down the burger (in my elegant dress and high heels) before I even got to the party room, where we were greeted by even more trays of food. I took off my shoes and chowed down, leaving the celebrity search to the young ‘uns. Geoff saw Juliette Lewis, Beyonce/Jay Z, Lenny Kravitz, Jane Lynch (“We loved you as Constance in “Party Down,” Geoff told her, to her utter delight) and Jeffrey Ross. But the highlight was when long red-haired Pearl met snowboarding celeb Shaun White. “I have red hair. You have red hair. We should be friends.” We took a picture, and they look like twins.

Pearl and Shaun White, twins

Dan was there for a little while, but soon left for the hotel with Steph. They flew to Vegas the next morning, and the show goes on. The flight home was all sunshine and clear skies – with the pilot tilting the plane each way after takeoff to give us a better view. I loved seeing the LA skyline… behind us, of course.

Thanks to Ann, Jenn, Amy and Laura and Meg for the shoes, make-up, hair and jewelry contributions. Thanks to my work friends, who had me walk a 12-inch paper “red carpet” as a going-away touch. Thanks to Chuck for staying home and letting me do my Grammy thing, and for his premonitions…to Dan for winning, to Geoff and Jeny for helping, and to Katie, Steph and Sadie for the fun times.

Thanks most of all to the “girls” for a great fun time, especially that Buddhist wannabe and master of competence, my sister Caroline (aka Keena).

For those of you who missed the Keys accepting one of their Grammys (in other words, virtually everyone who didn’t attend the Grammy pre-show):

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Deadline for entries is midnight, December 4, and our team of editors from around the globe (our Russian judge is shown squatting at right) will pick the winner the following week. And don’t forget to check back for more goodies down the road.

Speaking of the Keys… You know Dan has turned into a Nashville Cat when he starts sending me videos of pedal steel players – as opposed to, say, Freddie King or Magic Sam.

Here’s a couple of his latest finds – Alvino Rey and Pete Drake. And once you get past the corn (Lawrence Welk, faux farm setting), this stuff is pretty damn tasty.

Born in 1908, Rey grew up in Cleveland and has been called the father of the pedal steel guitar. Unlike the much-younger Drake, he honed his chops outside of country music, playing mostly big-band swing. But both Rey and Drake were early pioneers of “talkbox” technology later made famous by another northeast Ohioan, Joe Walsh (Rocky Mountain High), the ubiquitous Peter Frampton (who now hides out in Cincinnati) and funkmeister Roger Troutman (Zapp), who hailed from nearby Hamilton, OH. So blame the Buckeyes for one of the more notable gimmicks of the Seventies.

In this next cut, Rey joins the Lawrence Welk Orchestra – don’t laugh: its alumni include more than a few red-hot jazzbos – on a blazing workout of the exotic Hindustan, a tune originally written in the ‘30s for the theater organ but later given the full swing treatment by Artie Shaw. No talkbox on this tune, but I love how Rey gets a very respectable wah-wah effect by manipulating his volume control (long before Danny Gatton twisted the knobs on his first Telly). Also interesting to note that Rey’s first talkbox experiments involved having his wife Luise hide behind a curtain and sing along to his pedal steel, using a specially rigged microphone.

Drake was a long-time mainstay on the Nashville music scene – “first-chair” pedal steel player for Tammy Wynette (Stand By Your Man), Charlie Rich (Behind Closed Doors), Don Gibson, Marty Robbins and a long list of other country music stars. He even played steel on Bob Dylan’s groundbreaking Nashville sessions, adding some legitimacy to the hit Lay Lady Lay, as well as on George Harrison’s “All Things Must Pass.”

For the purposes of setting up the next video (and tying it in with the previous one), I’ll add that Drake played on the first international hit involving a talkbox. He recorded Forever back in ’64 – at least a decade before Frampton came alive and Zapp got more bounce to the ounce:

One more nod to the Keys… I know this video has shown up on their main website and myspace page, but I’ll post it here in case some of you missed it. It takes you inside the legendary Muscle Shoals Sound Studio as Dan and Pat re-imagine deep southern soul in the place that practically invented it. “We got a little trashed the night before and asked our manager for a harpsichord,” Dan said. “It showed up at the studio the next morning.”

Oh, and here’s a little taste of Roger Troutman, who scared the piss out of Muffy, Bif, Scooter and the rest of the student body at Miami University in the mid ’70s with his mighty band Roger and The Human Body… More Bounce to the Ounce/Zapp with Roger Troutman

Our last post on living, breathing artists led me to another crisis in confidence. Just what is this blog all about? Why keep blathering on about music that, with the possible exception of The Black Keys, most humans simply don’t care about?

Then I came across a passage in Rosanne Cash’s new book, “Composed: A Memoir,” that also could serve as RCR’s mission statement:

“We all need art and music like we need blood and oxygen. The more exploitative, numbing, and assaulting popular culture becomes, the more we need the truth of a beautifully phrased song, dredged from a real person’s depth of experience, delivered in an honest voice; the more we need the simplicity of paint on canvas, or the arc of a lonely body in the air, or the photographer’s unflinching eye. Art, in the larger sense, is the lifeline to which I cling in a confusing, unfair, sometimes dehumanizing world.”

I’ve been a fan of Cash’s ever since “King’s Record Shop” was released back in 1987. And I have to admit, her music doesn’t sit comfortably next to a lot of stuff I listen to. Nor would anyone confuse the writing on this site with the kind of intense, deeply reflective, almost painstakingly eloquent language found in “Composed.” Let me put it this way: Rosanne Cash will not be appearing at a chuckle-hut near you.

But she’s had a long-standing gig at my house. I may have been raised on the Stones, but my daughters were raised on Rosanne Cash – along with other alt-country favorites like Steve Earle, Lucinda Williams, Dwight Yoakam and Gillian Welch (for some reason, my girls didn’t take to Howlin’ Wolf… although Meghan loves Taj Mahal). Rosanne’s highly literate songs provided the soundtrack to many of our trips south. And even though my youngest eventually moved on to hip-hop and rap, I’m sure she still has a soft spot for Cash’s “The Wheel.” Fire of the Newly Alive

Cash brings the same sensitive touch to “Composed.” And her descriptions of growing up in a musical family especially resonated with me. We’re sort of the Cash family in reverse. Although my brothers and sister remain active and performing musicians (and I’m considering a return to service), all of the fame and notoriety has landed on the next generation as nephew Dan Auerbach – and his musical soulmate in the Keys, Pat Carney – continue their march toward world domination. Granted, they may never be as recognized and beloved as Johnny Cash, but there’s still plenty of time.

Much of “Composed” is about the many ways that fame can change those who enter the celebrity funhouse, either voluntarily (friends and second spouses, for example) or otherwise (immediate family). I enjoyed Rosanne’s stories of the time she spent in London, working in a low-level artists relations job for CBS Records simply because she happened to be Johnny Cash’s daughter. She had no illusions about the experience, perfectly understanding why some people treated her with great deference, and appreciating it when others didn’t. She was determined to make the best of the situation – and her father’s patronage – as she partied her way through a pleasant yet frivolous assignment.

Of course, there are larger themes to “Composed” – including death, motherhood and the challenge of struggling with addictive personalities (a theme that Cash felt was grossly overblown in the movie “Walk the Line”). Another big theme involves sacrifice. What does it take to really make your way in the world as an artist; to build your entire life around creating art, and doing it on your own terms?

Cash is philosophical in describing her own journey from Nashville hit-maker to a well-respected singer-songwriter with her dignity intact. In earnest and artful language, she takes us through the process of starting over again – of leaving behind a certain level of success and comfort to head into the great unknown, with only your creative instincts to guide you. But the true meaning of sacrifice is often revealed in the most mundane details, like the way Cash describes the simple act of flying:

“I have been in planes that have been struck by lightning, surrounded by tornadoes, diverted to new and even more miserably inconvenient destinations; planes whose landing gear failed to descend, engines conked out, wings clipped the ground and spewed rivets across the runway, takeoffs and landings have been aborted in snow and ice storms and violent winds and rain; planes that dropped so fast and so far that people literally hit the ceiling; and once, on a nearly empty late-night flight into Nashville, the pilot sent an attendant back just after the landing to ask me if I knew where Gate 4 was, since he thought I had probably landed at this particular airport more than he had. And I had.”

On more than one occasion, I’ve stared at an opportunity as a full-time traveling musician, and then looked away – mainly because I knew deep down that I couldn’t handle life on the road, especially in a third-tier band. But even a steady string of local gigs can take their toll (especially before the indoor smoking ban took effect). As my wife points out, we were tossed off more than a few social calendars because of my busy playing schedule. And after moving back to town in ’91, I went 10 consecutive years playing shitty (but well-paying) gigs on New Year’s Eve while my wife stayed home to entertain our daughters. Someday I’ll figure out how to make it up to her.

But all this pales in comparison to the act of ripping yourself away from home and family for huge chunks of the year to make money on the road. And touring income has become even more essential for bands today as CD sales are eclipsed by file-sharing and other acts of digital thievery (I confess, I’m not without sin).

Cash doesn’t try to gain our sympathy for millionaire artists. Whether she’s making somber observations about the creative process or describing a major fuck-up at the airport, she’s simply sharing the basic realities of life as a working musician. And, to her credit, she doesn’t make much of a distinction between that pursuit and the art of everyday living – like her late mother’s gardening. It’s just that when you play on a bigger stage, you usually give up a lot more to get there. Thankfully, modern-day road dogs like Cash and The Black Keys still find a way to make it work, so their inspiring shows can help us feel just a little bit better about life on planet earth.

A number of years ago, I read a newspaper column by some Big Gulp-swilling soccer mom that really rubbed me the wrong way. I’ll paraphrase: “Music really mattered when we were kids… Then we grew up, bought houses, had kids of our own, raised families and came to realize music really isn’t that important at all. Now we revel in the music of life.” Or some such drivel.

What I wanted to say to this nitwit was, surely there’s a form of art – movies, painting, gardening, woodworking – that still feeds your soul, no matter how much it’s shrunk over the years. For some of us, that form of art is music. And despite Rubber City Review’s best (and worst) attempts to keep it light, we’re dead serious about the music and artists we love and write about.

Rosanne Cash’s touch is far from light. But I blasted right through the fussiest language in her book – because at its core, “Composed” is all about the serious business of passing rich musical traditions from one generation to the next.

The List… Musical inheritance doesn’t get more real than this: Alarmed by his daughter’s lack of knowledge about American roots music (Rosanne had a good excuse – she grew up in Southern California), Johnny Cash jotted down a list he called “100 Essential Country Songs.” But as Rosanne Cash points out in the liner notes to her latest release, “The List,” “he could have called it ’100 Essential American Songs,’ because he included history songs, protest songs, early folk songs, Delta Blues, gospel, Texas swing, and standards that simply defy genre.” Thirty-five years went by before Rosanne got up the nerve to reinterpret a few of these tunes on record, and the results are a little mixed. The requisite guest artists don’t add much (with the exception of Bruce Springsteen, who brings a wonderful harmony voice to Sea of Heartbreak). But Rosanne’s cover of Motherless Children, by the always popular “Public Domain,” is one of the best versions I’ve heard of a song that has suffered many indignities over the years. And it’s all in the voice – no gospelly histrionics; just an honest, heartfelt read of an American classic: Motherless Children

Other Rubber City Review posts that have appeared on Blogcritics:
o Juliet, Naked… with the Fat Man in the Bathtub (Editors’ Pick)
o The World’s Greatest Advertising Jingle (Editors’ Pick)
o Guns, Drugs, Money and Vinyl… Welcome to School Kids

After viewing this performance (and, unlike most of the audience members, regaining my composure), I had a few important questions: Had Otis and band stumbled onto the set of a TV game show? Did someone pay him to wear the white sweater? And what the hell was this all about?

Turns out this was one of several performances from the fifth year of the American Folk Blues Festival, which toured Europe almost annually from 1962 to 1972. Five additional festivals were held from 1980 to 1985, but these earlier tours were notable for two important reasons. First, they had a powerful influence on the British blues movement of the early ’60s – especially artists like Mick Jagger, Steve Winwood and Eric Clapton. And second, they provided rare opportunities to capture American blues artists like Sonny Boy Williamson, Howlin’ Wolf, Muddy Waters, Skip James, Son House, Big Mama Thornton, Bukka White and many others, using some of the best studio and video equipment of the era.

For these and other reasons, we have several people to thank – including German jazz publicist Joachim-Ernst Berendt, who first came up with the idea, and promoters Horst Lippmann and Fritz Rau, who followed through on it.

This particular performance was shot at a small TV studio in Germany, October 1966. And of course, I had to find a few other clips from the same show. Here’s one with Otis and band (Fred Below on drums… not sure who’s playing bass… maybe Sunnyland Slim on piano?) backing up the great Junior Wells.

I’m sure you gearheads know what kind of mic he’s singing and playing through… I need me one of them.

It’s easy to get lost on youtube watching all of these jaw-dropping AFBF shows… I’ll just share a couple more and then tell you where to buy all this stuff on DVD. The first features blues legends Sonny Boy Williamson and Otis Spann playing a very laid-back version of Nine Below Zero. Sonny Boy is far from his peak, but his delivery is the very definition of deep blues – about as soulful as you can get…

Then we get to Howlin’ Wolf, the Taildragger… where the soul of man never dies. Smokestack Lighting – from a 1964 performance in England with Sunnyland Slim, Willie Dixon on bass and Wolf’s long-time musical foil Hubert Sumlin on guitar. The Brits seem far more excitable than the Germans… Joscha, would you like to weigh in on this?

These and many other performance are available on four volumes of DVDs from Reelin’ In The Years Productions… They’re listed below for your shopping convenience. And remember, a small fraction of each purchase goes toward ensuring I have the meds needed to write these posts at 3 a.m.

Dressed up to get messed up… Good friend and photog Rick Zaidan took this shot of Junior Wells in the mid-’80s at the former Palomino Lounge in Cleveland:

“Junior was touring with Buddy Guy,” Rick said. “We got there about four hours before the show to get a table up front. (Rick’s friend) John had my Buddy Guy Checkerboard Lounge T-shirt on, and Buddy noticed it during a sound check. Buddy came up to us and said, ‘where the hell did you get that shirt?’ I told him I ordered it from a catalog. Buddy said, ‘shit man, I’m not makin’ any money off that shirt… I’m going to have to talk to those motherfuckers.’ He was pissed but autographed the shirt anyway… At one point during the show, Buddy did the requisite walk-around solo using a 200-foot guitar cord. Most of the crowd followed Buddy outside while he soloed in the middle of Lorain Ave. Good times.”

For you photo buffs out there: Rick took the shot with an “ancient” Leica M3 rangefinder, “because it was a very quiet camera… I got some good shots but still didn’t have anything great. With my last three frames I just walked up to Junior and snapped this shot. One of my all-time favorites.”

Alan Lomax pulled into a dusty gas station outside Como, Mississippi, in 1959 and met a man working there who played guitar, in a style native to his Hill Country, just east of and rising above the Delta. Lomax, an ethnomusicologist, and his assistant Shirley Collins captured on their reel-to-reel the middle-aged sharecropper and pump jockey playing and singing What’s The Matter Now. These were the first recordings of the man who would come to be known as “Mississippi Fred” McDowell: What’s The Matter Now/Mississippi Fred McDowell

A dozen years later, I was in Cheap Thrills Records in Akron’s Spicertown scrounging for blues records. The store manager asked if I liked the blues. Well, yeah, who didn’t? That fella sitting over there, he said, that’s Fred McDowell. We’re playing together this weekend in Kent… you ought to stop by and hear us. (Thrilled with the invitation, I think I forgot to mention I was only 14 and wasn’t allowed in bars either by law or by my parents.)

Bob Kidney, the manager, had just started his band 15-60-75 a year earlier. Named for the numbers gambling racket from the Harlem streets, 15-60-75 morphed into The Numbers Band. Their signature sound – a growling, repetitive blues – stems from and pays homage to the hills of North Mississippi and McDowell’s thumping thumb-bass, searing slide guitar style: Jimmy Bell/The Numbers Band

The folk and blues revival of the Sixties brought many forgotten or under-appreciated artists back to the stage and studio. British rock bands gobbled up as many old blues songs as they could, regurgitating them back to a hungry public. I and many others heard our first McDowell song on The Rolling Stones album “Sticky Fingers,” and their cover of You Got To Move. Their version re-makes the droning one-note bass foundation into a more easily digestible 12-bar I-IV-V blues; the original carries more gospel certainty with its dirge-like, repeating low note: You Got To Move/Mississippi Fred McDowell

Through a family friend I was able to spend that night in Kent and weaseled my way into The Kove to see the Numbers Band for the first time. After their set, Bob sat down with McDowell for their performance as a duo. Bob told me earlier this year that McDowell preferred to play alone and rarely played with a backing band. The loosely structured, no-chord blues of North Mississippi does seem better-suited to the solo guitar, as in Goin’ Down To The River:

Playing a lead section on open-tuned guitar that mimics the vocal part is another McDowell trademark. He said, “When I play, if you pay attention, what I sing the guitar sings, too. And what the guitar say, I say.” On Big Joe Williams’ Baby Please Don’t Go, McDowell slides the melody on guitar under his own vocal work: Baby Please Don’t Go/Mississippi Fred McDowell

RCR contributor and amateur ethnomusicologist Dan Auerbach – another Fred McDowell admirer – presents his own guitar/vocal doubling on the Black Keys’ seminal Stack Shot Billy: Stack Shot Billy/The Black Keys

Yet another folk and blues pilgrim made his way to Fred McDowell’s door in the early Sixties. Arhoolie Records owner Chris Strachwitz released Volumes I and II of Fred McDowell, presenting a lifetime of music previously only available at Friday fish fries or Sunday church picnics. Even after his fame spread around the world – between performing at the Newport Folk Festival and touring Europe – McDowell returned to his Mississippi home, working at his gas station (bought with music royalties) and playing on Friday nights for his family and friends.

A young Bonnie Raitt sat down with McDowell to learn bottleneck playing and voicings, here evident in a snippet of the early McDowell song, Write Me A Few Lines (and before you blues purists start to scoff, know that Bonnie paid for Fred’s grave stone when the first one had his name misspelled):

While it would appear that re-working a one-chord song into more standard twelve-bar blues (as Raitt and so many others did) would create more of a challenge, the subtlety of the Hill Country, North Mississippi style can actually be a far more unpredictable, complex and challenging feat to pull off.

“Mississippi Fred” McDowell passed from cancer in 1972, aged anywhere from 64 to 68, depending on which historian you believe. He was in his forties before he owned a guitar, was well into his fifties the first time he saw the inside of a recording studio and never became a full-time musician. Yet his unique talent and serene – if at times haunting – vocal talent remains instantly recognizable. Perhaps fame coming later in life afforded him a unique measure of inner peace.