EDITED BY RAOUL HERNANDEZ
A BOWSER NIGHT
Continental Club/ Ruta Maya/Victory Grill, August 20
The august have died this month: Garcia, Mantle, Erbie Bowser. At the
Continental, Steve Wertheimer started happy hour with a tribute to the
legendary pianist. Voice trembling, he acknowledged what regulars knew: Erbie
Bowser, T.D. Bell, and the Blues Specialists made the club’s early shows the
talk of the town. In turn, the Continental preserved an open line to R&B as
it existed before, and on the cusp of, rock & roll. At Ruta Maya, I enjoyed
a sidewalk show of drummers, belly dancers, a trio on stage, and a buck-a-beer
fundraiser for a woman whose husband “disappeared” in Guatemala. Drumming and
dancing by a tattered community while pop-up thoughts and buildings glowered
down from all sides. That had something to do with Bowser. At the Victory
Grill, I caught a Specialists reprise. T.D. Bell’s vocals bore down hard like a
first officer suddenly given the helm. I walked outside to burn one, and a
friend complained “not in that lot, there’s a dead cat.” (Dead cats on East
11th? Why not soggy carpets on the Titanic?) But when I left, I saw that dead
cat. Not repulsive, nor shocking, nor sad, it was nearly all white bones; spine
and tail curling in a bed of its own fluff, below the moon, amid human detria,
a thing of grace. Entirely Bowser.
– Stephen McGuire
CAROL HOWELL BAND, JIMMY GEORGE
Flipnotics, August 17
Mr. George claimed a few times during his set to be a “sick and bitter
young man.” But his songs tend to refute that. Despite bemoaning alienation,
loneliness, and romantic futility, there’s an underlying positivism in his
material. Stylistically, his songs are often wandering and prosaic, but never
defy listenability. The essence of Jimmy George is aural playfulness. He uses
more special effects on his acoustic guitar – including raging distortion –
than any other singer/songwriter this reviewer has ever heard. The results are
remarkably ingratiating. His wokkachee, porno soundtrackversion
of “Manic Depression” is priceless, managing to be simultaneously camp and
homage. The Carol Howell Band is a very tight, full-sounded pop sextet. They
are glowing and poetic, yet never hesitant to seduce the listener with a juicy
hook now and then. Cast in the same mold and league as thinking persons’ pop
stalwarts Jayhawks, Silos, and Alejandro Escovedo, they cast shades of numerous
other acts, too. People as diverse as Leonard Cohen, Cat Stevens, Jimmy Buffet,
and even Poi Dog Pondering show-up in the CHB mix. But this doesn’t mean a lack
originality. They’re merely doing what all good pop bands do: synthesizing the
pieces of pop past into something uniquely their own. Note to aspiring
popsters: CHB is your textbook. – Joe Mitchell
PHAROAH SANDERS
Knitting Factory, New York, August 15
Unlike most other forms of music, jazz is stream-of-consciousness
music: No lyrics to remember (unless, of course, you’re a vocalist), no
three-minute verse/chorus structures – no rules, period. Just musicians
reaching deep inside and rummaging around to see what’s there. No one proved
this more clearly than legendary Coltrane sideman and tenor sax player Pharoah
Sanders during his three-song, 80-minute set at New York’s famed avant-garde
hole-in-the-wall, Knitting Factory. In fact, the show itself didn’t even seem
so much like a “gig” as it did an accidental coming together of four musicians.
Starting late, the show began with drummer Sam Ferguson’s solitary pounding.
Ten minutes later the bassist emerged stage left from the downstairs dressing
rooms, and nonchalantly picked up his stand-up for his solo. Meanwhile, pianist
William Henderson, who’d wandered in looking like he’d just woken up, slinked
in and sat at the Baldwin cracking his knuckles and waiting his turn. When it
came, the whole band exploded in unison, and the battle to be heard began.
Finally, the 54-year-old, white-bearded Sanders appeared. He shook the sleigh
bells at the foot of his microphone, and almost as an afterthought blew a solo.
A 15-minute solo. A solo not wild enough to evoke the “he’s ruined jazz”
response from his mid-Sixties Coltrane stint, but one of controlled chaos and
passionate depths. After the solo – and a half hour after the “song” had begun
– the whole band was smiling, and the 100-person audience was ecstatic. Two
more songs saw Sanders soloing hotter, his eyes half-closed, exposing their
milky whites, while his horn descended into guttural honking, tremelo weaving,
and all sorts of plunking sounds. When he’d finish he’d sit at the side of the
stage looking contemplative, and once he even left. Upon return, he’d lift his
sleigh bells again, give an unearthly yell into the mike, and command a
presence, which his former employer no doubt saw when he hired the
then-unknown. When it was over, Sanders held up a brass bowl to the mike, hit
it with a soft dust-bunny brush, and let the fading reverberations ease us out
of the timeless trance we’d just been under. – Raoul Hernandez
OZZY OSBOURNE
Austin Music Hall, August 19
It was during “Perry Mason,” a song from Ozzy Osbourne’s forthcoming
Ozzmosis album – one of two new songs that got a preview at this
sold-out, pre-tour show – that I found myself thinking “this sure sounds like
Soundgarden.” Then came the mental boot in the shin: Where do you think
Soundgarden get their sound, stupid? Black Sabbath, of course. And it was
during “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath,” (all the Sabbath hits were here: “War Pigs,”
“Paranoid,” “Children of the Grave,” “Sweet Leaf,” “Iron Man”), that I flashed
back to hearing that song for the first time (somewhere around the age of 15),
examining the demonic images on the album of the same name, and knowing that it
was bad – something that would make me bad. But when the song’s acoustic
break came, when Ozzy’s voice sang “nobody will ever let you know/when you ask
the reasons why/they’ll just tell you that you’re on your own/fill your head
all full of lies,” I knew that I’d been seduced by something dark. That same
something that now informs “alternative” stomp music like Soundgarden and White
Zombie much more than Led Zeppelin. And if anyone tells you metal is dead,
they’ve never seen the Oz, and the frenzy he elicits from his crowd. Two hours,
and 20-some-odd songs proved metal is, in fact, not a corpse, as did the
46-year-old former Sabbath singer, who’s been rehearsing in Austin for his
back-from-retirement tour – “Ozzy Osbourne will never retire,” screamed the
singer after the opening “Paranoid.” He doesn’t need to with this fan base
(mostly from San Antonio?), and a canon of songs like “Suicide Solution,” “Mr.
Crowley,” and “Flying High Again” (his first two solo albums are still his
best, according to their song placement on his set list), that come back from
the grave like long-forgotten relations wanting – no, demanding – their
due. Now stop yelling “Go fucking crazy,” Oz; they’re already doing that, and
they will as long as you’re putting on shows of this caliber. – Raoul
Hernandez
TED RODDY’S GRACELAND REVUE
Continental Club, August 16
So you hate Elvis. So what? In a society haplessly addicted to the
exploitation of fallen martyrs, hating Elvis is like being a junkie who hates
heroin. When Elvis Death Day rolls around each year, it just doesn’t matter
that the King’s ascendancy to the throne had as much to do with racism as
talent and hard work did. Like the agnostic who begrudgingly takes part in
Christmas festivities just to score presents, you might as well gather ’round
the corpse each August 16 to peruse the kitschy accouterments of Elvisdom. If
nothing else, it’s great ammunition. But all these pop sociological notions go
right out the window when you see Ted Roddy saunter up to the Continental Club
stage and deliver a one-two punch of “C.C. Rider” and “Burning Love.” Roddy’s
Graceland Revue is a perfect demonstration why we love the Vegas Elvis in spite
of ourselves: It’s a spectacular show. Dolled up in a hybrid of lounge singer
and strip-club hawker, Roddy didn’t even need the rhinestone jumpsuit. By
leaving glitter to the Ice Capades, the Graceland Revue illuminated the
outstanding backup work of T.C.B. Band staples such as James Burton (played
here by Brent Wilson) and Ronnie Tutt (Mas Palermo). Any consortium that can
manage to make Elvis look coherent in the midst of a fried peanut butter and
Percodan stupor can count on my vote. The Revue captured virtually every nuance
of the Fat Elvis experience, from subtleties like the triangle part on “Walk a
Mile in My Shoes” right down to obvious targets like Presley’s frequent
bungling of lyrics and shouting at the band to play faster or slower in the
middle of a song. Retched cheese like “American Trilogy” came off with all the
faux patriotic muster it deserved, and the five-piece horn section (who had to
stand still in a crowded quarter of the stage) did arranger Joe Guercio proud.
As for Roddy, his renditions were as solid as any professional Elvis imitator
and his gait was that of a celebrated prodigy who’d stopped giving a rat’s
patoot years ago, but won screaming accolades in spite of himself. Which is to
say he was a very convincing King indeed. – Greg
Beets
TERENCE TRENT D’ARBY
Irving Plaza, New York City, Aug 14
“I’m honored you chose me, with so much going on in New York tonight,”
Terence Trent D’Arby said, breathless from a series of David Lee Roth-ish,
mid-split toe-touches. But who wouldn’t want to see D’Arby’s first return to
the States in two years? Eight years ago, D’Arby bought into his own Ali-style
hype far too quickly for anyone but himself to care that he may have indeed
been the first to both discover and master what binds together Michael Jackson
and Prince – traditional R&B. Today, he’s done declaring himself the “shit”
and instead thanks the crowd repeatedly for even coming. Clearly, D’Arby’s
learned by experience that there’s a fine line between ego and attitude, strut
and swagger. One makes you look like an asshole, one a confident stud. But
whether he was dancing his complicated, yet clearly unchoreographed steps, or
crooning seated at a piano, D’Arby remained casually cool. And that’s the type
of cool it’s tough to take your eyes or ears off of. Without a doubt, D’Arby’s
an entertainer. And yet for all of his eye-catching moves, made even tougher to
ignore by his matching yellow short-hair and skin-tight pants, D’Arby’s voice
is still the show. Able to make shit concepts like “Supermodel Sandwich
W/Cheese” somehow soulful, D’Arby’s vocal command was astonishingly smooth in
both the funk and soul modes he flawlessly switched between mid-verse. As a
bandleader, re-working his own “Wishing Well” and a T. Rex encore with equal
grace, D’Arby proved most deft in eliciting grooves that never overstepped his
voice. With D’Arby’s ego checked at the door, a star had been re-born.
– Andy Langer
TODD SNIDER
Sixth Street Music & Heritage Celebration, August 4
Had Todd Snider brought out an acoustic, waded through an hour of
songs, and finished with his hokey “Talkin’ Seattle Grunge Rock Blues,” he’d
likely have died a slow, painful, outdoor festival death. We know this because
Jill Sobule died just two nights after Snider, with her acoustic-lite band
playing an hour before finally getting to the equally hokey “I Kissed a Girl” –
too little too late. By the time Sobule got going, the festival fans had headed
over to wait for a real festival attraction: George Thorogood. Clearly,
festival fans want anthems, riffs, and beer, nothing cute, acoustic or low-key.
Wisely, Snider was none of the above. On record, Snider’s a Parrothead capable
of turning a clever phrase, always one step away from complete novelty. But
live, Snider came off more like Neil Young than Jimmy Buffet, with Snider’s
band Nervous Wreck sounding confidently like Crazy Horse. For over an hour,
Snider sweated and staggered through the heat, playing as much to the crowd’s
back section as he did the fans up front – including the bum-rusher that Snider
gladly stepped aside for until security dragged the drunk off mid-rant about
his freedom of speech. All the while, Nervous Wreck guitarist Will Kimbrough
offered leads that gave depth to Snider’s songs, coming off as perhaps the
weekend’s best all-around guitar talent in light of a bill of flashier
guitarists with lesser songs to compliment – David Grissom, Robert Cray, and
Chris Duarte among them. And by casually ignoring his hit single, Snider
re-affirmed his own effectiveness when the crowd that had originally come for
“Seattle…” didn’t seem to mind its omission, cheering Snider on for two
encores.
– Andy Langer
This article appears in August 25 • 1995 and August 25 • 1995 (Cover).