The Mavericks – Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered Am I

Anyone that has followed this blog knows how I feel about Raul Malo. I promised that I would cheerfully follow him, and his heart-melting tenor, over a cliff with nary a protest.  I came to eat those words a few months ago when news reached my ears that he was reuniting with his old band, The Mavericks.

I freely admit that my auditory love affair with Raul started during his tenure with The Mavericks.  I loved every piece of music he created with them.  When I heard that the band had broken up, I was deeply saddened. It was clear that the parting was not amicable and the chances of reunion were nil.  My consolation was Raul’s solo career. I soon realized that the magic of The Mavericks was alive and well as long as Raul was out there creating music.  I grew to love Raul as a solo artist. He was inventive. His songwriting was better than it had ever been.  His skill as a guitarist grew with each passing performance.  He surrounded himself with top-notch musicians. Before long, I didn’t miss The Mavericks at all.

When I heard that the band was reuniting, I found myself skeptical.  Correction, I found myself cynical and pissed.  Damnit, I had moved on. Why revisit the past?  I entered a state of mourning for the loss of Raul Malo, the solo artist. Like a petulant child, I stuck out my chin and said that I would not be a part of this.

The first week in May, I learned that The Mavericks were playing at La Zona Rosa on Friday, May, 18. My conscience needled me fiercely. Had Raul ever lead me astray musically?  Then, remembering my pledge of undying devotion, I secured tickets. When that Friday night arrived, I dutifully stood outside La Zona Rosa for over an hour so that I could take my place in front.

The band took the stage to the roaring approval of an adoring crowd.  As they moved through old favorites and new songs, I was quickly caught up in the thrill of the music. It was my first love, all grown up, and just as hot as ever.  Eddie Perez played scorching lead guitar and provided perfect harmonies while working some breathtaking Dwight Yoakum style moves. (I stood directly in front of Eddie – those moves continue to haunt my dreams, the very, very good dreams.)  Paul Deakin was back on drums with intimidating intensity and Jerry Dale McFadden covered the keys with infectious enthusiasm.  Robert Reynolds was there, too. Rounding out the mix was Elio Giordano on bass, Michael Guerra on accordion, and a horn section!  Watching the electric energy between Raul and Eddie is a memory I hope never to loose.  It was the party of the year with Raul and his guitar front and center.

Why did I ever doubt him? Clearly, anywhere Raul Malo goes is the place to be.  And so….

After one whole quart of vodka, like a daisy I’m awake.

With no plain club soda handy, I don’t even shake.

 
Music men aren’t a new sensation. I’ve told you what I think.
But this brand new iteration, put me on the blink.

I’m wild again, beguiled again, a simpering, whimpering child again.

Bewitched, bothered and bewildered am I.

My new obsession:

Seriously, you are warned.  If you watch this one, you may be haunted by Eddie's suave style. Oh yeah, and Raul too. Raul's great....

This was taken by the lovely young woman standing to my left - so hot!

Rob Baird – Not Dangerous, More Like a Convenience

I caught Rob Baird at the Saxon Pub a couple of weeks ago, where he was celebrating the release of his new CD, I Swear It’s the Truth.  I found his show entertaining and easy to enjoy.  He’s clearly a talented songwriter and vocalist.  Dreams and Gasoline is the opening track.  Both on the CD and live it moves along at a nice pace and has that country radio hook. This is true of Same Damn Thing and most of the other songs on the CD.

There really isn’t anything objectionable about Rob Baird, but I find myself wishing for a little more adventure.  In my view, country music is at it’s best when it takes a little risk, when it steps across a line now and then. You won’t find any risk taking on I Swear It’s the Truth, which is probably what makes him perfect for mainstream country radio.  In fact, he’ll probably be CMA Artist of the Year in another 4 years. 

The problem with mainstream country radio is this: one or two songs along, I find myself looking for another station.

Same damn thing...

Karl Morgan: The Nice Side of the Blues

Genuinely gifted blues guitarists are a rare find. If you’re like me, you get a little thrill when you discover one. I came across Karl Morgan last year, a musician who makes a Fender Strat sing with guileless grace.

I first saw Karl opening for Guy Forsyth at Sam’s Burger Joint. I had acquired the tickets prior to my Guy blog entry, but I had already written my post and almost didn’t go. My musical interest is often fickle - I had said what I needed to say about Guy. My ears had already a’wandered and were eagerly
awaiting Raul Malo’s arrival.  But when the night arrived, I found myself making my way south.  Fickle I may be, but the thought of unused tickets is anathema.

Karl took the stage as a 3-piece, with his bass player, Wilson Carr and drummer, John Duran. Within in minutes, I thought I had him pegged: yet another SRV clone, albeit a good one. As his set continued, however, I found myself reevaluating that first impression.  He was certainly a talented guitar player, entirely at ease with playing in the style of SRV, but there was much more to it.  45 minutes wasn’t enough: I knew by the end of his set that I would be revisiting him.  I bought his album, Talkin’ With The Hands, and promised myself I would get to know Karl Morgan better.

Karl found his way onto my iPod and onto several different playlists, but defied description in my head. Even as I write this, I feel inadequate to the challenge of doing his craft justice with my words. Yes, he’s a blues guitarist, but Karl manages to take the blues and blend in generous touches of soul, funk and jazz.  Where many blues guitarists fall into a pit of messy licks sloppily applied against a song of angst, Karl’s technique is immaculately clean and meticulous from note to note. Even on the dirty channel, his rich tone rings with musicality.  His vocals are only secondary because of the stunning beauty of his guitar work; his voice is smoothly twangy with a rich timbre and slightly rough edge. It blends perfectly with his instrumentals.

I always find myself categorizing musicians against a line-up of those who hold places near and dear to my heart.  In that spirit, Karl takes the best of Seth Walker’s amazing tone and musicality, his technique and finesse, and brings in bits of the raw and rough bluesy sounds of Tab Benoit. Blended together in perfect balance, Karl’s guitar work is a poignant work of art for the ears.

I’ve seen him a couple of times in downtown Austin the last few weeks. Watching his right hand pluck and work the strings up high close to the fret board, while his left moves deftly along the neck, is simply mesmerizing.  Wilson Carr on bass and John Duran on drums provide perfectly tight and rhythmically complex accompaniment to Karl’s guitar work.  Cherry on the top: Karl is one of the nicest guys you will ever meet gigging in Austin.

Burning Heart is Karl's new album, and I absolutely love it.  With music that holds the spotlight on guitar, it’s easy to fall into a rut where, a few licks in, it all tastes like beans.  Karl’s new album defies that analogy and incorporates several different styles and sounds, including some brilliant acoustic work. In fact, that is my next goal: to see Karl with his acoustic in hand, alone on stage.

He’s got a residency at The Dogwood every Tuesday at 7. You can walk up, order a drink, and listen for free. Better yet, order a couple of drinks and put money in his tip jar. Buy a CD. You won’t be sorry, you’ll realize how blessed we are to have such a jewel in our fair city.

Side note: Last Tuesday night, while I was catching Karl at the Dogwood, another Karl fan made his way over to my table and joined me for a set. This fellow confessed to me that he no longer brought chicks to see Karl, since he has lost two to Karl’s good looks and Australian accent. He found this somewhat baffling, since Karl was “…like REALLY old, like at least 30….” Needless to say, Betty sitting across from him, basking in her At-Least-40-Year Old glory found this somewhere between hysterically funny and slightly offensive.

Your Good Man quickly found its way onto my "angst cure" playlist:

This video of Two Words shows Karl's beautiful guitar artistry:

Two Strong Arms - this is beautiful acoustic work:

Bob Schneider - The Madness of King Pancho

I’m picking up this blog again after an unintentional hiatus. It must be The Madness of King Pancho propelling me toward an entry on Austin musician Bob Schneider.

Let me say first, I’m not attempting to critique an entire opus of work on this guy. He’s been around too long, and like a musical Voldemort, he has killed and then split his soul too many times to me to run down all his damn horcruxes. (That’s a job for another woman – one that will smile as she cleans the toilet he never flushes.)

So, I’m talking about the Bob I’ve discovered on my limited journey. I’ve seen him live twice, and the only album I own is Lovely Creatures. (As I recall, it came with the house, like the garbage can and recycle bin. It’s filed under “Austin Pop” in my collection.) I follow him on Twitter, and he was on my Facebook friends list. (WAS… now I’ve got someone who looks like Bob but goes by the moniker King Pancho. Isn’t that soooo cute, just like a fuzzy kitten?)

I read Bob’s blog before I saw him live. It’s a voyeuristic view into a twisted reality, full of insightful poetry and disturbing images. Something tells me that if a cute fuzzy kitten appeared in Bob’s blog, it would have a giant red penis and large breasts, it would be an anal rapist. Reading lines like:

you are in your car
it is under the lake
at disneyworld and
sadness is filling
up the black inside
of your whole head

intrigued me immensely. It left me full of “Yes, I’ll have another thanks, as long as it’s not a kitten.”
I first saw him live at The Saxon Pub about two weeks ago with Lonelyland. I only caught about half the set, having completely failed to get into the music or feel connected to the experience. Unwilling to give up easily, I bought a ticket to his next StageIt event.

StageIt is a strange microcosm of a standard music venue. Bob seemed torn between the implied intimacy of performing in dark corners of someone’s abode, and the formality of a presumably recorded internet performance. It appeared from the comment feed that most of the participants were female, and it soon became apparent many were females of the “ridiculous” and “bat-shit crazy” variety. They made witless attempts at meaningful eye contact by text. Oh, the things, gaping with longing, people will type, secure in their belief the anonymity of the internet will cloak their public identities.

However, with a better view and a drink in hand, I fell easily into Bob’s groove. This was a much better picture of the guy behind the guitar, but like a twisted coin, it was also a view of Bob the Frat Boy. He made sophomoric attempts at humor by discussing the possibility of doing the show while taking a shit, and weren’t we glad we didn’t have smell-o-vision. Did you know his songs about his penis get airplay? Isn’t that funny? I was nonplussed by Bob the Frat Boy, but I was nothing but grateful at the lack of smell-o-vision as those virtual panties whizzed by my head.

The best moments of the show came in between the attempts at humor, when he looked away from the audience; as the curtain would ruffle in the breeze, I would catch small glimpses of a human operating the controls.

If your only experience with Bob Schneider is 40 Dogs, you miss the complex and unrepentant man behind the guitar. He sees the world with a sharpened focus, using eyes that pin the wings of your darkness to a wax mat. His art, poetry and music are the magnifying glass, showing the world your innermost secrets: your prejudice, your sentimentality, your lust, your venality, your violence, and his penis. Because we all know, at the heart of this universe where we wonder what the fuck it’s all about, the answer will somehow involve Bob’s penis.

I really like his music. He’s a very talented songwriter, poet and musician. Have I missed the point?

Here is Mainstream Bob, somewhere between his "humungoid giant star" phase and his "hanging out with Ravi Shankar" phase:


This was my favorite song of the StageIt performance:


This is Bob, somewhere between his "hanging out with Ravi Shankar phase" and his "carboydrate, sequined jumpsuit, young girls in white cotton panties, waking up in a pool of your own vomit, bloated purple dead on a toilet" holding his penis phase:

Charlie Mars – Apparently, A Backstreet Boy for a New Generation

After a summer hiatus, I returned to my quest for good music by venturing to the Saxon Pub last night to catch Charlie Mars. I can honestly say, I can’t remember how he found his way onto my radar. I think it was one of those automated “if you like this, you might like that” recommends. All I know for certain is one day Like a Bird, Like a Plane arrived, and I added it to my iPod. Then, I forgot to listen to it. A few months later, I read he was doing a month of Thursdays at the Saxon Pub, so I started listening. Intrigued, I made my plan to pay him a call.

Charlie Mars reminds me of a cross between an earnest singer/songwriter type that’s drawn to the dark side, such as Johnny Cash, and Sting, circa The Dream of the Blue Turtles. His lyrics are poetic, with defined hooks, which allow glimpses of complicated relationships and altered mental states. Its poetry delivered with a breathy drawl, steeped in melancholy.

In contrast, his music is, well, groovy. Listening to it, you’ll undoubtedly find your hips subtly swaying, your eyes closed, and a glass of wine in your hand. Like a Bird, Like a Plane, has a compelling, sinuous rhythm – excellent for those occasions when it seems appropriate to display how those years of Pilates have allowed your hip to move in opposition to your waist.

Having explored his music in the privacy of my own home, I was looking forward to the Saxon. What would Charlie bring for his “man-alone-on-stage-with-a-guitar” mode? I admit, I was caught completely unawares.

I entered the Saxon to a standing-room only crowd. After a quick stop at the bar for essentials, I found a home by the rail overlooking the room and began to observe. It didn’t take me long to realize I had inadvertently stumbled into a gathering of my exact demographic: 85% of the audience was female, aged 25-45. Almost every male in the room was attached to one of the females, obviously acting as chaperone. Interesting.

Charlie took the stage a fashionable (and slightly irritating) 15 minutes late, carrying a set list sketched on a torn piece of cardboard. He was presentable, but his appearance alone could not account for the waves of surging estrogen in the room. Average height, dirty blonde hair and green eyes, he wore the scruffy-but-hygienic musician look like a pro. His guitar work had more style than technical expertise, but he accompanied himself easily, working percussive touches into his chord work. Okay, his songs were poetic and his breathy vocals compelling, but I was at a loss when this crowd of seemingly intelligent women started singing along… in complete unison… like a hypnotized and eroticized choir to Meet Me by the Backdoor.

Charlie: “Whoa oh oh, why don’t you meet me by the backdoor yo-oh?”

Those Girls: “I can meet you, yeah I can meet you.”

Charlie: “I can meet you by the backdoor, yo-oh. Why don’t you meet me by the backdoor yo-oh.”

Those Girls: “I can meet you, yeah I can meet you.”

Betty, Slack Jawed with Horror: "Oh. Ma. Gawd."

I suppose I could analyze this phenomenon for hours: the cliché of women who love musicians; the caretaker wanting to nurture the artist; the desire to be the muse; the bad boy thing; fame; the reversal of power roles now that women can earn more money than men…. there's plenty of psychology there. Instead, I’ll confess: my THAT GIRL principles were so offended that, rather than linger and admit I had his CD in my purse ready for an autograph, I bolted the moment he left the stage. I simply couldn’t be seen standing unchaperoned in that throng of star struck women. I wasn’t going to be THAT GIRL by association just for a signature. (SHUDDER)

In conclusion, Charlie Mars is a solidly talented musician. His music is a little pop-sounding, but I like it. I look forward to his new album. I find his tortured, scruffy-but-hygienic artist image a little to contrived for my taste. I sincerely congratulate him on the acquisition of such a dedicated fan base. I encourage you give him a listen. I encourage you to go see his show. But please, I beg of you, don’t join that hypnotized and eroticized choir. And if disaster should strike, and every shred of dignity leave your body, for the love of god, please, don’t tell me.

I really like this song.


This one is steeped in melancholy:


But this one now brings on a PTSD episode.