Hot Club of Cowtown Sizzles

Hot Club of Cowtown

March 29, 2011

Iron Horse Music Hall

Northampton, MA

Hot Club of Cowtown might not be the best trio on the planet, but if the category is pure fun, it's damn close! I confess that I had grown a bit weary of the swing boom that hit about six or seven years ago. It's good music and all that, but it seemed like every guitarist from Austin to Alpha Centuri had just discovered Django Reinhardt (was he lost?) and every woman who could warble three on-key notes in succession thought she was the next coming of Patsy Cline. So I was only mildly up for Hot Club, a band I hitherto knew only from its CDs. You can now call me a gone-to-the-river been-baptized convert!

What makes this band stand out on the crowded peer [sic] is that it manages to walk the delicate line between not taking itself seriously and in laying down skilful, dynamic, and varied music. Yes, there was some Django, but there were also sizzling covers of Stephane Grappelli and Bob Wills, the later the band's latest project. Yes, there was Patsy Cline, but also some Patty Page. And yes, there was plenty of complicated swing cadences, but these were balanced with some delightfully simple two-steps. And you simply must see bass player, Jake Erwin in action. To call his style slap bass doesn't begin to get it; that boy slaps that instrument with a gusto that might get him hauled off the stage for assault! About the time you cant take your eyes off of him, Whit Smith let's lose with a hot jazz guitar solo that would have done Django credit, or Elana James lets fly a flurry of fiddle notes that threatens to strip the paint off the walls. She and Smith are also fine lead and harmony vocalists.

It may sound clichéd, but Hot Club of Cowtown is a seriously hot band.

Lunasa Adapts on the Fly

Lúnasa

March 18, 2011

University of Hartford

Is there a better band in contemporary Irish music than mighty Lúnasa? They made their annual swing through the East this St. Patrick's season and the audience at the University of Hartford's Wilder Auditorium came primed to hear them. After an unexpectedly lacklustre opening the band soon hit its stride and regaled the several hundred strong throng with its usual mix of jaunty melodies, most of which were punctuated by Trevor Hutchinson's muscular bass scaffolding upon which flautist Kevin Kennedy let's his instrument swoop, soar, and dive. The opening was a tad rocky, mostly because fiddler Seán Smyth, Kennedy's usual duelling partner had to go back to Ireland mid-tour. (Smyth is a practicing physician and had to go back to return to his practice.) Thus the band was working with a guest fiddler, the very talented Colin Farrell. (No, not that one, rather the former fiddler from Grada.) Farrell had literally been learning some of the tunes in the green room, so it took him some time to get his bearings. But here's the thing about a band as talented as Lúnasa; they're so good that they can adapt on the fly. Once Hutchinson, Uilleann piper Cillian Vallely, guitarist Paul Meehan, and Kennedy got the measure of Farrell, they brought the melodies to him, left him space to innovate, and threw him some solo interludes. He did not disappoint. As impressive as the arrange-on-the-fly adaptations were, it was Vallely who really shone. He's a self effacing and quiet man, but he sure can write tunes and play; some times his pipes buzzed like an agitated hive, while at others they were so deft that they were as subtle as a lullaby. And we always know what we'll get from Kennedy: a shanachie as emcee who wields his flute with the joy of a man who'd pay for the privilege of playing. Most of the material came from the band's two most recent recordings: La Núa (2010) and Sé, though there was also new material from a forthcoming release.

If you've never caught Lúnasa live, stick them at the top of your to-do list. This all-instrumental line-up doesn't need a singer to change the pace or mood. The skill and chemistry that allow them to break in a substitute fiddler before your eyes is the same formula that casts an alchemical spell on an audience.

Jeff Talmadge: Mature and Steady

Jeff Talmadge

Kind of Everything

Berkalin Records 10008

* * *

Austin-based singer/songwriter Jeff Talmadge is settling into that comfortable groove that comes with maturity and attention to detail. His six previous albums attracted notice from folks like Lloyd Maines, Tim O’Brien, and Thomm Jutz (who produced luminaries such as Nanci Griffith and John Prine). You build up clientele like that and they show up on new projects such as Kind of Everything. It’s true to its title. You get the giddy gee-whiz wonderment of “One Spectacular Moon,” the bluegrass-influenced “Molly,” the desperate edges of the title track and “It’ll Sure Be Cold Tonight,” and a passel of love songs (though not always from the perspective you might expect). If you like mixed themes, Kind of Everything has one song that evokes summer and another that’s set at Christmas. For me, though, I most admired Talmadge’s ability to communicate simply. The man is a prize-winning poet, but don’t expect arcane metaphors and oblique references to long-forgotten myths. On “Mississippi Moon,” for example, he doesn’t mystify the fading memory of a long ago lover; he just sings, “I wish I had a picture of her smile.” Put a touch of grit in the voice, set it to modified waltz time, and what more do you need to know? Another nice touch is “Step by Step (As Long As),” one of those rare folk songs--a testament to enduring love. Talmadge has some miles on his voice, but it’s holding steady--just like his pen.

Jonathan Byrd Cackalack

JONATHAN BYRD

Cackalack

Waterburg 92

* * *

Have no idea what “Cackalack” means? Neither did I until I got the latest release from Jonathan Byrd, a seventh-generation North Carolinian. It seems that “Cackalacky” is colorful regional slang for his home state, which would make him the eponymous Cackalack. It’s fine record as well as a linguistics lesson, a mix of Country and bluegrass-tinged folk music that reminded me of young John Prine. Remember the old Prine standard “Yes, I Guess They Oughta Name a Drink After You?” Bryd’s equivalent is “Reckon I Do,” a return to Bad Boy Country, where there were delightful dollops of corniness. (That’s all smoothed over by studio slickness these days!) And we get some of those delicious hill folks heavy-handed metaphors, such as a prescription of “Chicken Wire” to keep straying “hens” from venturing too far from the “coop.” (Get it?) And Bryd goes positively Prine with “Dungarees Overalls,” a half-loving, half-skewering look at redneck culture.

Don’t get me wrong; Bryd is no carbon copy of John Prine and he doesn’t seek to be. We’re talking about the spirit and vibe of the music here. There are flashes of sentimentality (“Father’s Day”), a lovely song of longing (“Scuppersong”), and no less than two songs built upon oak tree metaphors. It’s all as unpretentious as Byrd claims life is in his section of old Cackalacky.

The Quiet Power of Tracy Grammer and Jim Henry

Tracy Grammer and Jim Henry

Greenfield, MA

March 12, 2011

Some singers knock you off your feet and others gently rock you. A Tracy Grammer concert is like falling into a big old featherbed that warms, envelops, and refreshes. As she and sidekick Jim Henry demonstrated to a hometown crowd, there's a lot of power in the soft approach. Grammer is the greatest living interpreter of songs from her firmer partner, Dave Carter, and to hear her sing “Evangeline” or “Crocodile Man” is alone worth the price of admission. The late Dave Carter may have been the best songwriter of the last two decades of the 20th century and, yes, that list includes a guy named Dylan! Grammer is deft in using her soothing and soft voice in ways that allow Carter's ecumenical views--soaked simultaneously in skepticism and deep spirituality-- find their level. Want the uber-endorsement? Check out Grammer’s cover of “The Mountain,” a song that the Dali Lama loves. Grammer has also become a fine interpreter of other writers as well, as she showed in a drop-dead gorgeous cover of David Francey's “Waking Hour,” and some equally fine stuff from writers such as Tom Russell.

Grammer and Jim Henry harmonize beautifully together, with Henry also showcasing tasteful and dynamic accompaniment and arrangements. Henry is also an exceedingly fine act on his own. How many performers would have the moxie to take on a beloved song such as Richard Thompson's “Vincent Black Lightening?” More to the point, how many could cover it without sounding lame? Henry is no RT, but if you had never heard the original you'd be tempted to use the adjective ‘definitive’ for Mr. Henry's crisp rendition. The Greenfield evening was homespun in the finest sense of that word--two gifted individuals playing for folks who reside in their respective backyards. Most of the material has been in their repertoires for several years. No great revelations, but when you can knock 'em over with a feather, why bring out the big guns?

Gibson Brothers Latest a Throwback--Not for Everyone

The Gibson Brothers

Help My Brother

Compass 4945

* *

Eric (banjo, vocals) and Leigh Gibson (guitar, vocals) have won a few International Bluegrass Music Awards and there’s little denying their talent, especially when they team with the rest of the band: Mike Barber (upright bass), Clayton Campbell (fiddle), and Joe Walsh (mandolin). Help My Brother lives up to its title in that the album’s dozen tracks are mostly upbeat and wholesome. There are sweet love songs, some mountain gospel, and lots of homage to live below the Mason-Dixon Line. Fans of bluegrass in the high lonesome style pioneered by Bill Monroe will like this album quite a lot. Especially stellar are Campbell’s fiddle breakouts.

I did, however, find some of the songs crossing the line between wholesome and trite. Verse such as “He can be found in a mother’s smile/He can be founding the eyes of a child” are from the June/spoon/moon school of writing and don’t rank very high on the sophistication scale. For the most part, though, how well you enjoy this album will depend upon where you fall on traditional bluegrass versus “newgrass” spectrum. As one who has been spoiled by rising lights such as Railroad Earth and Crooked Still, I found my attention drifting. I begrudge no one who likes this release, but it’s just too wholesome and too yesterday for my taste.

Deadheads Talking to Themselves?

The Grateful Dead in Concert: Essays on Live Improvisation. By Jim Tuedio and Stan Spector, eds. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Company, 2010. ISBN 978-0-7864-4357-4

NOTE: This book was originally reviewed for the Northeast Popular Culture Association.

In Long Strange Trip, former Grateful Dead publicist Dennis McNally tells the story of two 1990 concerts in which the band was breaking in its new keyboardist, Vince Welnick. The first concert was filled with brilliant moments and Welnick was jazzed. Yet just several nights later the Dead’s show was “abysmal.” McNally sought to comfort the disconsolate Welnick with these words: “Vince, you don’t understand. It’s not you. This is a band that really sucks sometimes, and tonight’s the night” (585).

I can think of no better metaphor to sum up the twenty essays in The Grateful Dead in Concert. There are moments of crystalline insight, such as Erin McCoy’s essay that plumbs the band’s Americana roots, Jay Williams’s look at the Dead’s bohemian nationalism, and Natalie Dollar’s effort at cracking the communication codes that built the Deadhead movement. Good stuff. But this is also a book that really sucks sometimes. The project has a clever hook in that the essays are assembled like a concert: a tune-up, three sets, and an encore. Had each of the authors stuck to dominant riff of building interpretive frameworks with the consideration topnotch musicians give to assembling a playlist, this might have been a very fine book indeed. Alas, two major problems disempower this book like a severed power cable: fandom and academic pretentiousness.

Several of the writers seem to have forgotten that the book’s purpose is to illumine the band. Few groups have ever approached the Dead in cultivating such an impassioned and loyal following. Fine, but a scholar’s main task should be objective and dispassionate. To place one’s one love of the band above analysis is only appropriate for a volume titled What the Grateful Dead Meant to Me. There are, alas, several entries in this volume that are so idiosyncratic and personal that outside readers will be hard pressed to find broader insight.

But these essays are easy on the reader compared with those in which the writer is simply showing off. Several essayists indulge in postmodernist excess at its absolute worst. Their prose is obtuse, jargon-ridden, and unreadable. Although I applaud the effort to apply intellectual rigor to the study of popular culture, must we do so by extracting all the joy? More to the point, of what good is any analysis when the writer has engaged in the intellectual equivalent of speaking in tongues? Who, exactly, is served by such an approach?

Put together, it’s hard to know what audience Tuedio and Spector hoped to reach. Deadheads? Most of them, rightly, will turn to their tapes, downloads, records, and memories rather than read this book. Undergraduates? No way. Most lack the tools or the patience to wade through this book’s dense prose. Other intellectuals? The collection’s lack of a consistent disciplinary focus renders them an unlikely collective target. The book was inspired by a small group of self-styled Grateful Dead scholars whose path-breaking efforts suggested new ways in which scholars could use music to illumine American society. In this book, however, some of them have lost their way and are speaking only to each other. Call it an off night.