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Posts tagged ‘blues’

Oct 8

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Quick Shares: “Light – On the South Side” (a Killer Combo of Riffs & Reads)

Dear Santa,

I have been a very good boy this year. Ok, maybe not very, but still…I walked the line. Last year I did you a solid by trimming my list from a dozen hard to find records down to just three. I know, I know…having the elves trawl old record shops and flip vinyl bins from Chicago to Memphis is not a good use of their time…especially the during xmas season. ‘Nuff said. Lesson learned. Now I need a favor from you. 

I’ll make it easier on you this year: one request. Seriously, one request. I’ll take care of the rest. There is this book+record combo that looks as bow down as bow down gets. It’s called, “Light: On The South Side“. I caught a glimpse of it on the web and it sucked me in…deep. I wanted to be present  at nearly every scene depicted (I’ll skip the one where the chick is laying on the pool table, though). 

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The fact that this comes with two long players makes my turntable sweat. That track listing smokes.

Just in case you aren’t sure what I am talking about, here is a trailer for the book that I found on YouTube. Word to the wise…have the speakers turned up for this one.

Thanks again. Hey, don’t bother sending that reminder this year…I’ll have the special egg-nog sitting in the fridge for you when you stop by (did you want me to use the Henessey or the Rémy this time?).
Cheers, Judd.

Light: On The South Side

(description from the website)

Between 1975-1977 Chicago’s South Side night clubs were a little lighter. Not just because of a lanky white guy skulking about, but rather because of the camera and strobe light he carried. Michael Abramson hit Perv’s House, Pepper’s Hideout, The High Chaparral, The Patio Lounge, and The Showcase Lounge, not to capture the artists on stage, instead popping off a half dozen rolls every night on the crowd. 

Light: On The South Side gathers for the first time over 100 of these images, as Numero shines its own strobe on yet another dark corner of the past. The 132-page hard back book features photos, an ephemera section, and an essay by Nick Hornby. Housed in a gorgeous slipcase with the 12X12 book is Pepper’s Jukebox, a seventeen track compilation of the kind of funky Chicago blues heard from the stage and the Wurlitizer. The deluxe 2LP set is packaged in a sharp gatefold jacket with two inner sleeves crammed to the gills with label scans and stories. 

May 30

“The Mathematics of a Good Album”: Kip comes a calling from Oz with a guest post on Peter Parcek

Our friend from the Land Down Under, Kip, has chimed in with an album review. The album is from one of the members of The 6149′s “Honor Roll” (seen in the sidebar), Peter Parcek. Peter’s latest is called the “The Mathematics of Love” and was just released last week.

It is always a treat when Kip comes a calling with a thought or two on music.

Kip is muso of the highest order. Whilst living in NYC, Kip worked for Rolling Stone mag. Kip was their Aussie correspondent for all things Aussie music related…and then some. Kip and I have shared many a “music summit” together. These summits consisted of equal parts conversation, storytelling and ice cold, delicious Aussie ales and lagers. Spinning yarns with Kip is a joy. I encourage you to do so here at The 6149.

Thanks, Kip, for taking the time to share your thoughts after your full-on, four hour-plus listening session with “The Mathematics of Love”. After reading his take on Peter’s latest ten song class act, real deal, guitar legend in the making album, you’ll know why Jann and crew were keen to keep Kip on the payroll.

Disclaimer: I have to mention that my connection with Peter runs deeper than a near twenty year fan and friend relationship: I now work for the label that released Peter’s album. That, my friends, is a story I will tell another day, soon.

So, without further adieu…Kip’s review.

—– The Mathematics of a Great Album

Peter Parcek is one of those unknown legends we stumble upon occasionally. Very occasionally. They’ve paid their dues many times over but, for whatever reason, they’ve remained a relative secret to all but a devoted few. But when we find them and start listening, a knowing smile joins our closed eyes and lolling head in instant appreciation.
The Peter Parcek 3 have just released a new album, The Mathematics Of Love, and it’s an absolute top-shelf cracker.

The paradoxical title announces the album’s intentions immediately: a patchwork quilt of carefully measured pieces that ultimately creates a unique whole that is far greater than the sum of its impressive parts. The set is a beautifully integrated production with each musician sharing the honours and each playing a vital role. A classic, tight, three piece led by an out-and-out geetar maestro.

The PP3 have sown their seed in fertile blues/roots territory but they also show a masterly touch at driving a toe-tapping, funk/jazz groove. The band’s obvious infatuation with three-piece grooves provides a welcome relief from the radio-ready synthesizers and compressors often found in contemporary blues projects.

The overall feel of the set is helped enormously by Parcek’s clever choice of covers. From ballsy alt-country darlings, Lucinda Williams and Jessie Mae Hemphill, through blues thoroughbreds Peter Green, Harlan Howard, Cousin Joe Pleasant and Mississippi Fred McDowell, Parcek approaches each cover as if they were a semi-blank canvas. The resulting musical whole is often-times spellbinding; allowing you to luxuriate in the idiosyncrasies of these monolithic tunes.

Unlike its bastard child Rock ‘n’ Roll, the Blues is filled with rules, but it has a logic that allows remarkable freedom within the well worn grid of notes and chord sequences. If, like Parcek, you submit and are in total control of your ‘canvas’ and are willing to go where the music takes you, old songs are just waiting to be had and new songs, for the gifted, are there to be written. And rest assured, the four originals here are well chosen, beautifully written and provide the rock solid foundations that this record is built upon.

Parcek is an axeman who teenage boys should be dreaming of while doing their best SRV/Hendrix impersonations in bedrooms and garages across middle America. He taps those same well-worn resources but does so with taste and a healthy dollop of soulful grooves and jazz inflections. Indeed, the upright bass and drumming on Kokomo Me Baby and Rollin’ With Zah is straight out of a late-night gig at The Blue Note. Or, a road-side rockabilly joint in Kentucky, for that matter.

Parcek drops in some jaw-dropping technical wizardry, but he does it in a timely and measured way that avoids blatant wankery. Indeed, his mastery allows his guitars to achieve heights never reached by even the most accomplished speed freak heavy metal guitarists.

But whether full throttle or in after-hours mode, Parcek makes it all immediately indelible. And his vocal – often a counterpunch – is just as warm and indelible as his incendiary rapid-fire fretwork. His cool voice has a range, versatility and timing that is essential in carrying this collection of tracks to their respective peaks. The gut-wrenching vocal by-play on the slow burning Tears Like Diamonds is positively gorgeous and one of the many vocal highlights.

Every year or two, if you listen to enough music you finally get to hear something exceptional – but The Mathematics Of Love goes beyond that lofty designation. Whether it’s the semi-angry lament that runs through the title track, the rollicking bar-room groove of Busted, or the ‘everything old is new again’ feel of Williams’ Get Right With God, Parcek’s evocations of urban grooves are always engaging and seriously entertaining. Do yourself a favour and get a copy of this gem. Trust me, you will not be disappointed.

—–

Peter had an album launch party at the House of Blues in Boston last week. When I say it was a bow-down event…I mean it was a BOW-DOWN event. I will have lay down the full low-down another time; but, have a look at some video one of the guests shot of the Peter Parcek 3 in action. Peter and the guys played a one and a half hour set complete with five crowd inspired (demanded!) encores. Here is the link to check out vids that were crowd captured.

http://www.youtube.com/user/spi534

(apologies for the crude link/no imbedded video. I am on a plane flying to Italy as I type this and I can’t perform any web wizardry at this moment. Just the same, go check out the link…you’ll be glad for it)

Apr 18

7 Comments

Hidden Gems: The Scene and Sound intersect in Paris for a full-on, bow-down, live blues romp

It was Valentine’s Day, Paris, 2004. My wife and I had been out sharing good food and drink, indulging our love, striking sparks and celebrating the glorious unknown that the future held for us. We ended up floating throughout the Latin Quarter looking for turn-ons. We stumbled upon one; it was a hidden gem of a pub cum subterranean homesick blues-joint: the Le Caveau des Oubliettes‎. 

While passing by we heard the familiar six string sting of blues licks and bass drum kicks.  We looked in the front window and saw a small, cramped, crowded bar with no band in sight. Where the hell was this music coming from? We went inside, sidled up to the bar and shouted out for a round.  

“Barkeep…a pint of your strongest ale and a glass of your bubbliest bubbly…and please tell me where those licks are being plucked”.  

With a point of his finger and a knowing wink he sent us off to the far corner of the bar.  There we found a door…no, “door” doesn’t do it justice. This was a hatch; an opening; a portal…to a true scene.  We made our way down the stairs of stone. We were going into a basement of filled with a history of lost souls and shared sounds. You see this blues bar used to be a prison back in the 1400′s.  What used to be populated by life’ers and death’ers is now filled with hipsters, beer hoisters and transients all in search of the sound of a raucous blues band. This place is a gold mine for blues-scene prospectors like me. It is a classic combination of integrity, character and true-grit. 

This past Saturday I re-visited the scene of the crime with a good mate. This time it was no serendipitous stumble; I made a beeline for the joint this time. I had promised my friend a happening and I was anxious to see I was going to be a man of my word or not. I was. 

The band was huddled tightly on a cramped stage at one end of this carved out cave.  The drummer and bassist bumped elbows while the guitarist and harp-man straddled the stage and dance floor trying to make room for their expansive solos.  My buddy had never been here and judging by the initial look on his face, I held up my end of the bargain. 

We had a couple pints pulled for us and then joined the other cellar dwellers to catch the tail end of the night’s second set. Our blues-crew tonight was a barnstorming quartet out of Holland: The Juke Joints. These guys have been around for twenty years and it showed. They were combustible. They whooped up a calamity of blues and rock that could have damn well collapsed that concrete cavern at will…if they wanted to.

By why ruin a good thing. They were there to play and did they ever.  You want to talk about passion…these guys were drenched in it. There is something about a band who has been together for twenty years and still exudes such shear joy, pleasure and passion for their music. They were tight. They knew all the trick and cues…old pros with the enthusiasm of young turks on the prowl for a big break. 

This is what the live scene is meant to be. Four guys playing their guts out for the shear joy of the jam and reaction of the crowd. At the end of the second set, the crowd thinned. My friend and I held our ground and held up our end of the deal as fans and faithfuls. We stayed glued to the stools for the third and final set. By this time the crowd was only twelve.  The band didn’t give a shit. If there were twelve or twelve hundred, I know that they would have played with the same passion and inspiration

They blasted through a forty minute set of pulsing blues and rousting rock and roller licks. I love these moments. When I can see the band loving it, loving what they are doing and going-for-it, I feel indebted to them. I feel like I owe them one. It is my job to tap a foot, pump a fist and shout and holler back at them to feed the rhythm machine. The live scene is a legacy of give and take and to and fro. It is a push and pull, hand-clap-sing-a-long exchange that doesn’t require a handshake, but does deserve a reaction. We gave ‘em one…

We left satisfied as all hell. Thanks to The Juke Joints and a (literal) hole in the wall, scene and sound intersected to form a sweet spot for our late night Paris carousings. Ooh la la, indeed.
_____

I couldn’t help but by one of their CDs. The Juke Joints have a quite a catalog, too. I bought one their live offerings: Live in Ireland. I am going to give it a spin tonight and see if there is lightening in this here bottle. 

After all that, you don’t think I would leave you hanging, do you?  Here are a few vid clips of the Juke Joints in full romp. Check out the first one where Boogie Mike trades guitar licks for harp licks with Sonny Boy.  The second clip is a band in hot pursuit of a red hot sound. The third one is more of the same except Sonny Boy trades in his mouth harp for the squeeze box.

Enjoy! 

 

 

Apr 1

11 Comments

I’m so glad, I’m so glad…to be a music fan: Skip James, The Cream and “Passing it On”

Skipjames
Eric-clapton-miembro-de-the-cr

See the full gallery on Posterous

I’ve never been hit by lighting, but today, out of nowhere, I felt a jolt of ‘lectricty run all down my arm. 

Sometimes you think you know something. Sometimes you think you’ve got a handle on things. Sometimes you think you’ve got it all worked out. You think you do…and then something happens…something that makes you start the fuck over. 

I was walking to The Tube this morning to go to work. I had my iPod shuffling through one of my fave playlist that I made: Blues with a Feelin’.  It’s a bow-down list of front-row tunes from my fave musics: blues, country (Waylon & Willie country, not today’s bullshit country) and good ol’ southern Stax and Shoals R&B and soul…and a few other bits and pieces thrown in for good measure. 

The something that happened today was something that never happened before. Today teacher and pupil went toe to toe courtesy of the all mighty shuffle. One of the bits and pieces in this playlist is “I’m so glad”, by Cream. I am not a big Cream fan, but I like this song…mostly because its a Skip James tune. Skip James did the original version as far back as 1931.  Cream released their version in 1966.   

I listened to the Cream version. I like the “rolling” feel of the track. The guitar travels along as Jack Bruce bellows out a thick, leathery vocal. At about 1:25 in the song, the EC Express leaves the station and roars on down the tracks. Not bad…not great.

At this point I walked through the turnstile and made my way to the Piccadilly line to catch my train to work. On my way down the escalator, Skip James came on to play his (the) version of “I’m So Glad”. 

I guess I wasn’t paying attention, because I didn’t realise that the same song was playing; however, it wasn’t the same.  This version was in black and white. There were hisses and pops and snaps and crackles…but it had that familiar rolling guitar riff in it. “Oh, shit…that’s Skip James”.  I clicked nine o’clock on the iPod’s wheel and started ‘er over. I had heard this before, but hearing James’ original juxtaposed with Cream’s version was what caused the jolt. I’m no purist, but I couldn’t get over how thin and frail the Cream version sounded next to James.  

Cream, Clapton in particular, tried so hard on their version. They could never have matched the believability of James’ original and I’m sure they knew it. It must have been so frustrating to have been the caliber of musician as those guys were and to know that they were never going to be as good as Skip James…or anyone else of that ilk and era. The thought of knowing that after hearing James and Johnson and Honeyboy and House, everything you did, no matter how grandiose and inflammatory you may play it, you were never going to be able to touch the truth in that old black man’s burden. 

The important thing is that they listened.  They listened to what James did and how he did it and they did their best to deliver the goods. They were influenced. 

As a music fan, you know that influence is the lifeblood of “passing it on”.  It is how a song from a black and white 1931 finds it way from the juke joints of Mississippi to London’s Royal Albert Hall in the technicolor 1960′s. If you break the joy of being a music fan into three parts, a third of it is listening to music, a third of it is learning about music and a third of it is about sharing the music and those learnings with other music fans.  This is what Cream did, the Stones did, the Grateful Dead did, what early Fleetwood Mac did, what Gram Parsons did…what Bob Dylan is still doing on each of his last four brilliant studio albums.  

Shit, this is why I am a fan. I can’t play a lick, but I can sure appreciate one. I love the listening, the learning and the lending of my knowledge accumulated through a passion for music. After today, I decided that this weekend I am going to go back and listen to a few paired up classic then and now’s and see how the wannabe’s learned from the old timer’s. 

I’ll be sure to share what I find out…

http://listen.grooveshark.com/widget.swf

p.s. if you have any suggestions of song pairings, serve ‘e, up in the comments. Cheers.

 

Feb 8

8 Comments

Valentine’s Day in Paris, the Big Mistake and Secret Subterranean Blues…

Ah, Paris. The city of love…a perfect place to take your wife for Valentine’s day. How could a guy go wrong?  I’ll tell you how: He invites one of his best friends to just happen to show up and join the fun.

In 2002, my first year of marriage, I did just that. My wife and I were living in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. I decided to orchestrate a Valentine’s Day three-day weekend in Paris. It was a special trip: our first Valentine’s Day as a married couple. I knew The Wife would be happy. She had been to Paris before and talked about how much she loved the city. I had never been to Paris and was looking forward to it. 

I organised a great first night (which was the actual Valentine’s Day). I bought two tickets to the midnight showing at the Moulin Rouge.  That was the first of the two “Big Surprises” that I kept telling The Wife I had for her on the trip. That one went over very well. First night in Paris was an epic success and quite a romantic evening. 

Day Two was when “Big Surprise #2″ was expected. After the Moulin Rouge, The Wife was expecting Big things. I was confident that she would love Big Surprise #2. Even before the trip I thought it was going to be a hit. In hindsight, I may have thought this because Big Surprise #2 was a surprise I would have loved to have sprung on me!

I fucked up. Capital-R, Royally. This was Valentine’s Day…in Paris…as newlyweds…for only three days…just the two of us…or so she thought. I invited my good buddy, The Rouster (name changed to protect the guilty) to surprise Julie by showing up at the Louvre at the same time we were there (what a coincidence!).

Let me repeat: I invited one of my best friends, drinking buddy, trouble-making twin, to surprise my wife while she was on a romantic holiday weekend with her husband in Paris. What was I thinking? What THE HELL was I thinking?!?

I remember telling my old man about my plan. When I did, he just stared at me with pupils the size of manhole covers. “Are you stupid?”, he asked. “She is going to hate this idea”.  

I was dumbfounded. She liked The Rouster. She really enjoyed all the times we went out together and had said so often. Like me, she hadn’t seen him since he moved to South Korea two years earlier. Why wouldn’t she want to see him? He was coming back to the States for a visit anyhow, so a rendezvous made sense. 

“Judd”, my old man said to me as he fixed that you’ve really done it this time stare on me, “do you really think (The Wife) wants to be surprised by one of your craziest, beer swillingest friends…in Paris…on Valentine’s Day?”

“Oh, shit!?  What have I done”, I said to myself. 

Long story short: Big Surprise #2 blew up in my face. The Wife was not all too happy to be sharing time with The Rouster that could have otherwise been spent on L’Amour with L’Wife.

It took some tears and beers, but I smoothed things over and we carried on with our Paris fun. Like I said, The Wife and the The Rouster are good friends. There was no option but to act like the true Champions of Fun that we knew each other to be and get on with getting down. 

We decided to have a red hot go at the Latin Quarter on our last night. We went out for sushi and sake and then searched the streets to find the pulse of the city…and a bit of live music. We were walking down a busy street and heard blues music coming out of a small pub. We looked inside and couldn’t see where the band was. The pub was small (maybe 20 ft by 40 ft) and packed with people.  Where the hell was the band?

We went inside and had the barkeep pull a few pints for us. I was about to ask where the band was when I saw a closed circuit TV hanging from the wall with musicians playing on it…but  where the hell were they.  In the back of the pub there was doorway.  That doorway led to a staircase down to the cellar. Ah! That’s where the band was!

We struck gold. The cellar looked like someone went down earlier that day with a jack-hammer and banged out a cave big enough for a stage and a makeshift bar.  There were two rooms. In the main room there was the stage and assorted chairs, tables and church pews strewn about. The other room was smaller, but important…it was where the beer taps were. 

The scene was fantastic. The timing was spot on. We were Pros.  We were professional subterranean scene seekers and we just hit the mother-load. I spent a lot of my youth reading about the days of yore when the R&R got it’s passport and spent time traipsing Europe. Stories of scenes such as this one seem to be the norm, each one hipper than the last.  True underground…that’s where we were and that’s what we were.
Paris_cave_pub_jam
(The stage in the cellar)

It was a Sunday night.  Sunday night was (and still is) the open Blues Jam night. Ah, the Jam. Everybody loves a blues jam, right?  Drums, piano, harp, guitars…as many as the stage can hold. They all lurch out  in a  crude and chaotic cacophonic stupor, stalking each other until they find the communal groove.  
Judd_jp_in_paris_1

(me and The Rouster, 2002)

Who knows what can happen when the Jam is on…sparks strike and legends are born.  The crowd thought we had a birthing right there and then. There was this young kid…he must have been 15 if he wasn’t 12. he jumped up on stage with the “house” band and strapped on someone’s guitar. Oh man! We were knocked out loaded once he started to play!  

He was tearing frets and slamming the slide and seemed to do it with the wisdom of a guitar god.  The floor was littered with jaws.  This kid could play and the crowd let him know it. People were screaming out, “Le Petite Clapton”.  Hot Damn!  What a night. 

We left around 2am. The Wife and I had to catch a few winks for our 8am flight back to the US. The Rouster stayed on in Paris to carry on the V-Tine’s Day celebration for a few nights with a new sweetheart he met at the hostel.  No love lost in Paris that Valentine’s Day.  

This past weekend, The Wife and I took the train to Paris for the day.  Almost eight years to the day, we visited that bar. We hoisted beers and toasted to Big Surprises, good friends and the sweet joy of serendipity. 

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(me, returning to the Scene of the Crime this past weekend)

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(The Sunday night Blues Jam lives on)
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The name of the joint in question is: Le Caveau des Oubliettes (check link for details).  Here is a snippet from a National Geographic  travel blog on the pub:

In medieval times, Le Caveau des Oubliettes, which translates to “the cave of the forgotten,” held prisoners awaiting the guillotine. The tight door and thick stone walls masked the prisoners’ wails and howls. Iron handcuffs on the walls, chains along the staircase, and a barred window remind listeners of the room’s past and give the intimate club an uniquely eerie feel. 

Funny, I think I saw a couple of those guys there that night…
_____
Speaking of the Blues Jam & Eric Clapton, here is a jam from the anniversary edition of Layla.

Jan 25

2 Comments

B.B. King out Ya-Ya’s the Stones: Why he sings the blues…because he can, dammit!

In December of 2009, the Stones put out a 40th anniversary box set of “Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out”. In the deluxe versions, the sets from opening acts Ike & Tina Turner and B.B. King were included.  If you need the low-down on the original “Ya-Ya’s” set…I envy you. You are in for a treat, and, quite possibly, a life-changer.  Where to start to find out about it?  Start with Lester Bang’s bow-down review of the original set from 1969. 

If you are a Ya-Ya’s fan like me, the deluxe set was a must buy. The remastered Stones tracks are worth the price alone.  But…the real-deal, bow-down, shuck and jive toe tappers in this box set come from B.B. King. 

The B.B. tracks are comprised of five smoking hot scene stealers. This is raw blues power.  The performance is full-tilt from the horns to the rhythm section to the two stars of the show: Lucille and B.B.’s boom box vocals. 

Buckle up and have a listen to one of those tracks that I have uploaded for you: ”Why I Sing the Blues”

Lucille jump starts the track and the rhythm sections churns out a bedrock backbeat. B.B. belts out the lyrics in his tenor horn howl (you know that B.B. never sings and plays at the same time, right?). 

At 1:58 in song, B.B. takes Lucille for a spin and rips off a solo sprint for over a minute. At the 3:30 mark, B.B. heads for the wings (this was the last song of the set before the encore). This is when the band takes over and lays down a stone groove…how fucking tight can one rhythm section be?!?

B.B., ever the crowd pleaser, comes out for a quick 30 seconds of guitar picking before the band pulls the emergency break and stops that groove dead in it’s tracks (if only instruments had airbags). 

But enough hot air from me…go ahead, hit play.

3-04 Why I Sing The Blues [Live].m4a
Listen on Posterous

p.s. I love the way B.B.’s guitar sounds like a horn. More and more, as he gets on in age and style in his playing…I think Keith Richards plays like B.B.’s horn-ified guitar sound. To see/hear what I mean, check out the Scorsese docco, “Shine a LIght” (short clip below).  Keith is honking his guitar like a chuck-riff saxo-trumpet. 

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