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Posts Tagged ‘R.L. Burnside’

(Above: Blues legends Hubert Sumlin and James Cotton help Big Head Todd and the Monsters visit the “Killing Floor.”)

By Joel Francis
The Kansas City Star

Rock and roll tributes to the blues are hardly a novel concept, but the glossy, contemporary rock of Big Head Todd and the Monsters makes them an unexpected outfit to try such a feat.

Saturday’s concert at the Uptown was billed as “Back at the Crossroads: The Robert Johnson Centennial Concerts.” The four-piece, Colorado rock band aimed to celebrate Johnson in the months leading up to his 100th birthday in May, but this wasn’t quite the case. Johnson figured prominently in the set, but there was also a heavy dose of Chicago blues. The night was more like an exposition of the genre’s most overt influences on rock. Put another way, the first set opened with Todd Park Mohr alone onstage playing the dobro and ended less than an hour later with dueling drum solos.

Taking the stage in a dark suit and black fedora, frontman Mohr quickly put any expectations for the Monsters’ back catalog to bed, telling the one-third capacity crowd the only thing they’d be hearing was “straight, natural blues.” He was right for the most part, but an audience clamoring for “Bittersweet” – one of the band’s biggest tunes – needn’t have worried. The songs in the last third of the set sounded like typical Big Head Todd material outfitted with familiar blues lyrics.

Mohr opened with three stellar, solo acoustic numbers before being joined by Missouri native Lightnin’ Malcolm and Monsters keyboardist Jeremy Lawton. That trio, along with bass player Rob Squires who entered later, formed the core band for the night, present on nearly every number. They were augmented by drummer Cedric Burnside, grandson of the Fat Possum bluesman R.L. Burnside and Malcolm’s longtime touring partner, and Monsters drummer Brian Nevin.

The real blues cred, however, came from 79-year-old guitarist Hubert Sumlin, and 75-year-old harp man James Cotton. Sumlin’s playing can be heard on most of Howlin’ Wolf’s classic material and Cotton played on many great Muddy Waters records. Half a century later, both men were in just as fine of form today as they were in their Chess Records heyday. Sumlin’s soling was nimble and his vocal turn on “Sittin’ On Top of the World” was strong. Cotton made his harmonica moan and wail like a woman in pleasure and had so much fun during one solo that he started laughing when it was done.

Big Head Todd and the Monsters are no strangers to working with blues legends. In 1997 they worked with John Lee Hooker on a cover of his “Boom Boom” that reached the Top 40. Opinions of that track will likely frame one’s appreciation for the evening: The band either misappropriated a hero to dumb down a song or paid honest homage using their familiar idiom.

The best moments were the spare opening numbers, particularly Lightnin’ Malcolm’s duets with Cotton on “Walkin’ Blues” and “Future Blues.” Mohr really pushed himself at the mic all night and did a great job approximating the Wolf’s moans and rasp on the Chicago numbers. Cotton or Sumlin were onstage for about half of the two-hour set’s 22 songs. Their contributions were always a treat.

After the first, mostly acoustic set, the band took a 20 minute break. They returned for another hour of electric music that blurred the lines between Chicago blues, traditional bar band fare and the typical Big Head sound. Not everything worked – covers of ZZ Top’s “Jesus Just Left Chicago” and a slick arrangement that removed any sense of doom from “Last Fair Deal Gone Down” were questionable. But there was no doubt everyone onstage was having fun.

Setlist: Love in Vain; Stones In My Passway; Dry Spell; Kind-Hearted Woman Blues; If I Had Possession Over Judgment Day; Walkin’ Blues; Future Blues; Viola Lee Blues; When You Got A Good Friend; Travelling Riverside Blues. Intermission. Ramblin’ On My Mind; Preachin’ Blues (Up Jumped the Devil); Wang Dang Doodle; Sittin’ On Top of the World; Killing Floor; I Love the Life I Live, I Live the Life I Love; Jesus Just Left Chicago; Come On In My Kitchen; Last Fair Deal Gone Down. Encore: Cross Road Blues; I Believe I’ll Dust My Broom > Sweet Home Chicago.

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Review: Experience Hendrix (ft. Hubert Sumlin)

Review: T-Model Ford

Review: Buddy Guy and Bettye LaVette

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(Above: T-Model Ford wants to cut you loose.)

By Joel Francis
The Kansas City Star

Few links remain to the golden age of Delta Blues. Most of the artists are dead, and the generation that followed grew up cities far away from sharecropping plantations. T-Model Ford’s appearance at Davey’s Uptown on Thursday night was a rare opportunity to witness firsthand the roots of the blues.

Ford drew a diverse group of about 60 fans, spanning several generations and including bikers, punk rockers, hipsters, musicologists and the curious. What they got was either an embarrassment of riches or way too much.

Fliers promised Ford would be performing with a band, but his only backing was Gravel Road drummer Marty Reinsel. Together the pair coaxed a sound that distilled nearly every traditional variety of the blues into one long shuffle. The guitar-and-drums duo played with a simplicity the White Stripes and Black Keys could only imagine.

There was no set list. For two and a half hours, including a 20-minute break, Ford flipped through the vast blues songbook in his mind and played whatever started coming out of his fingers. The results included well-known songs like “Hoochie Coochie Man” and “My Babe” and Ford originals such as “Chicken Head Man” and “Cut Me Loose.”

Seated on a cushioned chair, Ford looked completely relaxed. During the glacial pauses between verses he gazed across the room, a gentle smile on his face as if he had no cares in the world. Across Ford’s lap was Black Nanny, a Peavy electric guitar that looked like it had been stolen from a hair metal band. Ford twice called it the best guitar in the world.

Regardless of their origin, most songs were based on a two-chord shuffle that had nowhere to go and was in no particular hurry to get there. Most songs ambled along for about five minutes, several stretched to nearly twice that length. Ford’s smooth singing was almost stream-of-conscious, picking up verses halfway through, mixing stanzas and inventing new verses altogether.

Reinsel’s drumming was the element that held the set together. He held back on most songs, altering his emphasis ever so slightly to keep the endless boogies from becoming monotonous. The more aggressive rhythms on “Chicken Head Man” had a Keith Moon energy.

Between songs, Ford massaged the arthritis in his right hand. After one number, he declared it “Jack Daniels time” and downed the contents of the shot glass sitting on his amplifier. He told a story about getting married last week and told the women in the room that “If she flags my train, I’m going to let her ride.”

But what was hypnotic for some was tedious for others and near the end of the first set the chatter from the bar in the back of the room threatened to take over the space. After a 75-minute set, Ford took a break which eliminated many of the less-dedicated fans.

If the night had stopped there no one would have felt shortchanged. No one is sure of Ford’s age, least of all the man himself, but most peg his birth sometime during the Harding administration. Unlike many bluesmen, Ford didn’t start playing guitar late in life and didn’t record an album until 1997 when he was discovered by the Fat Possum label.

The hour-long second set reprised many of the favorites from the first set, including “Sallie Mae” and “That’s Alright.” By the third go-round of “Hoochie Coochie Man” what started as innocent started looking senile. It didn’t stop anyone from dancing, though. As a friend said at the end, when you’re 90 years old you can play the blues any way you want.

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(Above: Drivin’ N’ Cryin’ are one of many artists to get some love in a recent Oxford American music writing anthology.)

By Joel Francis
The Daily Record

The Oxford American “Southern Music Issue” is an annual treat, loaded with great writing that unearths wonderful stories on longtime favorites and introduces several new discoveries. Coupled with a CD – in recent years it’s come with two discs – the magazine effectively serves as the ultimate set of liner notes to a killer compilation.

Now in its 11th year, these editions are been rightfully prized; back issues frequently fetch more triple face value online. Fortunately, there is a more affordable way for new readers to access the previously published essays and features.

The Oxford American: Book of Great Music Writing compiles the best articles from the magazine’s first decade. The 420-page book reads like a mixtape, transitioning smoothly from all the usual suspects – blues, country, jazz, rock and bluegrass – and spiking the playlist with pieces on Southern metal, the Sex Pistols and the art of playing.

Several of the best features provide an intimate view of the artist or their environment. Tom Piazza’s account on hanging out backstage at the Grand Ol’ Opry with snubbed bluegrass legend Jimmy Martin is so awkward Ricky Gervais could turn it into a screenplay. Similarly, John Lewis’ weekend at Ike Turner’s house puts the much-savaged abuser in new light, particularly when the host shows up in his pajamas at the end of the day to thank Lewis for coming and hug him goodnight.

A history of jazzman Bob Dorough by Paul Reyes takes us from the obscure keyboard player’s origins touring with Sugar Ray Robinson, recording “Blue Xmas” with a dismissive Mile Davis and ultimately as the force behind Schoolhouse Rocks. The line from “Up a Lazy River” to “Conjunction Junction” was never so clear.

Beth Ann Fennelly’s description of a night at Junior Kimbrough’s juke joint with R.L. Burnside and Cynthia Shearer’s search for understanding in Janis Joplin’s hometown of Port Arthur, Texas both paint a clear picture of the artists’ native perspectives. One can feel the plywood sweat at Junior’s Place and imagine Joplin longing for some niche in town where she felt comfortable and ultimately yearning to get the heck out.

Despite a mention of Wu Tang Clan producer RZA in the introduction, the book eschews hip hop and most new music. A dated piece on R.E.M. circa “Automatic for the People” is the only time when the mainstream and the modern intersect. But while the book doesn’t touch on modern artists, it will certainly send readers scrambling back to dusty old platters, either on vinyl, acetate or plastic, to unearth old favorites, possibly for the first time.

Easier to carry than a stack of magazines, less trouble to hunt down online, the Oxford American: Book of Great Music Writing will be a pleasant voyage for adventurous fans of both good writing and good music.

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(Above: Honorable mention R.L. Burnside, who was convicted of murder 1959 and sentenced to Parchman Farm. Burnside later said, “I didn’t mean to kill nobody. I just meant to shoot the sonofabitch in the head. Him dying was between him and the Lord.”)

By Joel Francis

Phil Spector is hardly the first musician to be convicted of murder. He’s not even the most famous or influential one. But he is the latest. In honor of Spector’s recent sentencing, The Daily Record recognizes five other musicians convicted of murder.

Cool C and Steady B

Cool C and Steady B both came of age in the 1980s Philadelphia rap scene. Steady, nee Warren McGlone, was one of the first Philly rappers to taste the mainstream, while Cool, born Christopher Roney, was a member of the Hilltop Hustlers. The two teamed up in the early ’90s to form C.E.B., which was short for Countin’ Endless Bank. Taking their moniker a little two seriously, the duo decided to rob an actual bank.

On Jan. 2, 1996 – perhaps fulfilling a New Year’s resolution – C, B and Mark Canty, another Philadelphia rapper, attempted to rob a PNC bank in the City of Brotherly Love. Needless to say, the heist didn’t go as planned. When officer Lauretha Vaird responded to the silent alarm, she was shot and killed by Cool C. Steady B exchanged shots with another officer as the trio hopped into a stolen minivan and made their escape.

Steady was arrested at his apartment shortly after the crime. When two handguns left at the bank were traced back to him, he confessed to the crime.

In October, 1996, Cool was convicted of first degree murder and sentenced to death by lethal injection. Steady got off with a second degree murder conviction and life in prison. Cool was granted a stay of execution in 2006, by Pennsylvania Governor Ed Rendell (probably a closet C.E.B. fan), but remains on death row. Steady also remains incarcerated.

Little Willie John

In the late 1950s, Little Willie John traveled in the same soul circles as his contemporaries Sam Cooke, Jackie Wilson and Hank Ballard. His parade of hits started in 1955 with “All Around the World” and included “Need Your Love So Bad” (later covered by Peter Green’s Fleetwood Mac) and “Fever,” which Peggy Lee made famous and took to the U.S. Top 10.

John had a golden voice, but he also had a bad temper and a taste of alcohol. Those three traits collided backstage at a concert in 1964 when John stabbed a man to death. He was convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to Washington State Prison. John was appealing his conviction and aiming for a comeback when he died of pneumonia in 1968.

Don Drummond

In the fall of 1964, trombone player Don Drummond was living the good life. The band he helped form, the Skatalites, were finally breaking through, thanks to a song he wrote. “Man in the Street” was a Top 10 U.K. hit and for many their first taste of reggae. One year later, Drummond’s arrangement of the Guns of Navarone also hit the U.K. Top 10. But 1965 was not as kind to Drummond.

Drummond earned the nickname “Don Cosmic” for the erratic behavior brought on by his manic depression. When the body of Drummond’s girlfriend exotic dancer Marguerita Mahfood was found in Drummond’s home with several knife wounds, the police quickly arrested Drummond and charged him with murder. Drummond was judged legally insane at his trial and committed to Bellevue Hospital in New York City. Drummond died in Bellevue in 1967 at the age of 39. His death was ruled suicide, but because no autopsy was performed conspiracy theories persist to this day.

Drummond left behind a catalog of more than 300 songs and pivotal role backing Lee “Scratch” Perry, the Wailers, Delroy Wilson at their earliest sessions.

Jim Gordon

Drummer Jim Gordon started his career backing the Everly Brothers in 1963. By the end of the decade he’d performed on “Pet Sounds,” “The Notorious Byrd Brothers” and numerous other albums. When Jim Keltner pulled out of a tour with Delaney and Bonnie, Gordon was brought in as the replacement. Gordon got on so well with the rest of the band, which included Eric Clapton, bass player Carl Radle and keyboardist Bobby Whitlock, that the quartet played on Clapton’s first solo album, the first post-Beatles album by Clapton’s friend George Harrison (“All Things Must Pass”) and even a session with Ringo.

The group is most memorable, however, for the album it produced with Duane Allman. As Derek and the Dominoes, Clapton was able to pour out his unrequited love for Harrison’s wife Patti Boyd and Allman was able to lay down some of his best licks. Gordon gained notoriety for writing the piano coda to “Layla.” He composed the piece independently and had to be persuaded to let Clapton incorporate into what became one of the biggest rock singles of all time.

After Derek and the Dominoes broke up in 1971, Gordon played in Joe Cocker’s Mad Dogs and Englishmen tour. He also toured with Traffic and Frank Zappa. Gordon’s session work also flourished. He played drums on Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain,” and the Incredible Bongo Band’s “Bongo Rock” album. Gordon’s drum solo on “Apache” is one of the most sampled licks in hip hop.

In the late ’70s Gordon complained of hearing voices. Treated for alcohol abuse instead of schizophrenia, the voices had pushed Gordon out of music entirely by 1981. They pushed him even further in 1983 when Gordon killed his mother with a hammer. Gordon was properly diagnosed in his 1984 trial and sentenced to sixteen years to life with the possibility of parole. Gordon remains in prison.

Lead Belly

Most musicians wait until after they’re famous to start killing people. Not the man born Huddie Ledbetter. Before he recorded a note for Alan Lomax, the towering legend of folk and blues had escaped from a chain gang in Texas, served seven years for killing a relative in a fight over a woman. Lead Belly learned new songs and honed his craft while in prison, eventually earning a pardon from Texas Governor Pat Neff, who enjoyed the religious songs Lead Belly had played for him. Five years later, Lead Belly was back in prison, this time for attempted homicide. After serving three years for knifing a white man in a fight, he was discovered by John and Alan Lomax, who fell under his spell and petitioned to have him released.

After taking Louisiana Governor O.K. Allen a recording of “Goodnight Irene,” Lead Belly was released (the official reason was time off for good behavior). He recorded several albums for the Library of Congress based on his book “Negro Folk Songs as Sung by Lead Belly.” Unfortunately, Lead Belly could not shake his criminal past, and was back in jail again in 1939 for stabbing a man in a fight in New York City. Again, Alan Lomax jumped to Lead Belly’s defense, dropping out of graduate school and helping Lead Belly record an album of songs to pay for his legal expense.

Lead Belly became a fixture of the New York City folk scene in the 1940s. He appeared on the radio, performed with Brownie McGhee, Sonny Terry, Woody Guthrie, and others and recorded a wide range of music. Acolyte Bob Dylan once said Lead Belly was “One of the few ex-cons who recorded a popular children’s album.”

“Goodnight Irene” became Lead Belly’s most popular song. Unfortunately, he did not live long enough to see Pete Seeger’s group the Weavers make it a No. 1 hit.

Lead Belly died in 1949, leaving behind a treasure of songs that includes “Midnight Special,” “Cotton Fields” and “Rock Island Line.”

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(Above: The Stooges do “1969” in 2007.)

By Joel Francis

When Ron Asheton started playing electric guitar in the mid-’60s, there were no signs pointing the way he wanted to go. The Beatles were just starting to experiment with feedback and backwards instrumentation on their albums; Pink Floyd was buried in the London underground and Andy Warhol had yet to champion the Velvet Underground (not that many were paying attention anyhow).

The closest things to the sounds in his head were Pete Townshend’s guitar riff on The Who’s “My Generation,” the surf guitar instrumentals of Dick Dale and the dirty blues of the Rolling Stones and the Yardbirds.

By the time Asheton, his brother Scott, and their longtime friend Dave Alexander hooked up with fellow Ann Arbor, Mich. musician Jim Osterberg there were a few more road signs. Home state natives the MC5 had kicked out their jams, and the free jazz freak-outs of John Coltrane and Pharaoh Sanders were regularly released on the Impulse label. But there still weren’t many fellow travelers on the Asheton brothers’ weird road during the Summer of Love. Osterberg, who would soon call himself Iggy Pop, was one hitchhiker they had to pick up.

Four years later, it was mostly over. In retrospect, it’s amazing the band lasted that long. The Stooges two albums, released in 1969 and 1970, were rawer than razor burn, more violent than the 1968 Democratic Convention and as combustible as the Hindenburg. When it was over, Asheton’s guitar work pointed the way that nearly every guitarist since has followed, or at lease acknowledged.

It’s difficult to imagine the furious stomp of the White Stripes and the six-string perversions of Sonic Youth and Dinosaur Jr without the expanded palette Asheton created. The Sex Pistols and the Damned both covered “No Fun” in concert. Heck, the blueprint of the grunge movement was mostly hijacked from the Stooges’ designs.

Of course David Bowie prodded the Stooges to reconvene in 1973 for “Raw Power,” but it wasn’t the same. Iggy’s name was out front and Asheton was confined to the bass guitar by Ig’s new best bud, James Williamson. There was even a piano player! Asheton’s rightful place on lead guitar was restored when the Stooges reunited a generation later for a couple guest shots on Iggy’s solo album, an R.L. Burnside tribute and, finally, an album of their own, but by then they were no longer leaders.

Ron Asheton’s name rarely comes up in “Guitar God” discussions. The music he made nearly 40 years ago remains difficult to assimilate by mainstream tastes. And like his long-overdue adulation, it took people a while to figure out he was gone. Six days after dying from a heart attack, Asheton’s body was discovered in his Ann Arbor apartment.

There was no obituary in the New York Times and little mention on the 24-hour news channels, but somewhere in heaven a white cloud is tarnished with soot and Asheton’s scary noise is driving the harp-plucking cherubs out of their minds. Which is as it should be.

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