Change is Good

Last year I started this blog to chronicle the music I was hearing in and around Austin, Texas.  The feedback I have received has been mostly positive, with the primary critique being “post more often!” With this in mind, I have decided to expand the blog to include a review of each musical outing.  I still intend to review the music in detail, but an in depth review won’t be included in each post.  You asked for it, so here it comes. Hold on to your knickers!

And so, tomorrow night: The Continental Club and Michael Fracasso….

Dwight Yoakam: A Story of Country Music's Sally O'Malley and The Roadie Troll

On Thursday night I ventured to The Moody Theater in downtown Austin to catch Dwight Yoakam.  I have been ambivalent about shows at this venue, primarily because it’s so damn large. The views from the balcony take you so far away from the action on stage there is no real connection for me with the music experience.  Thursday, however, I had general admission to the floor.  And let’s face it; crowding the stage for hours while your feet ache and your ears buzz from the music is a universal experience, whether you’re at The Moody Theater, Gruene Hall, or anywhere else.

General admission to the floor turned out to be the right ticket for the Dwight experience. My friends and I arrived early so we could claim premium standing space for the show.  Our perseverance (and sensible footwear) paid off in spades when we claimed our space just left of center, directly against the barrier next to the stage.  We dutifully suffered through the wet towel that was the opening act and counted the minutes until Dwight could take the reins.

Dwight’s appearance didn’t disappoint.  He took the stage donning a white button down shirt (untucked), denim jacket (replete with rhinestone trim), and the ass-tightest jeans ever created by man for man. (For those who always wondered, my view gave me opportunity to deduce that Dwight in fact, dresses right.)  The ever-present hat topped the girl-candy confection standing stage center.

The music didn’t disappoint.  He ran through all the Dwight classics: Ain't That Lonely Yet; A Thousand Miles From Nowhere; Guitars, Cadillacs; It Only Hurts When I Cry; Streets of Bakersfield; I Sang Dixie; Turn It On, Turn It Up, Turn Me Loose; Little Sister; Little Ways; Fast as You; Honky Tonk Man; etc. - all done and enjoyed thoroughly.  I’ve always enjoyed his take on Suspicious Minds, and he delivered a killer reprise of Ring of Fire.

All of this music was delivered with the signature Dwight moves: pelvic thrust, rolling hips, twisting legs.  He’s the damn Sally O’Mally of country music: the dude may be 55, but he can still KICK, STRETCH, and KICK! all while rocking that boy camel toe.  He has just got to have a killer pelvic floor after all those years of Pilates for Rockabilly stars.

Dwight stood center, flanked by his hot, bad-boy bass player and his cute-if-oddly-effeminate lead guitar player.  All three had guitar picks lined up their mic-stands and the bass player made a point of tossing picks into the audience on occasion.  Desperate to wed bridesmaids coming to blows over a bridal bouquet had nothing on the ravenous women clamoring for those picks.  Unfortunately, the last pick caught the wind and blew back from a determined blonde.  Poor thing was millimeters from a firm finger-grasp on that treasure when it retreated mid-air and fell irretrievably on the wrong side of the solid barrier blocking the stage. 

After Dwight had taken his over-developed pelvic floor and his band backstage, the stagehands, herein after referred to as Roadie Trolls, swarmed on stage to tear down.  As they unplugged the guitars and mics, the sad, pickless blonde begged one of them to give her one of the picks from the mic-stands, since her treasure was lost.  I wish I could accurately convey the sickening contempt that radiated off this particular Roadie Troll as he looked at the sad creature before him.  As she very sweetly pleaded, “Please? Please?” he methodically extracted each of the about 30 remaining picks on stage from the mic-stands and placed them menacingly into his little bag.

Can someone please explain to me what the hell this dude’s problem was? They were guitar picks. Not Elvis’ sweat stained scarf, guitar picks. I found myself livid as I witnessed this disrespect of Dwight’s fans.  These people crowding the floor had paid about $60 dollars a ticket, paid $10 to park, stood for hours, and tolerated a moderately annoying opening act, just to spend 90 minutes listening to Dwight sing.  These are the people that give Dwight a job, and consequently give the Roadie Trolls a job.  I understand that there are mentally unstable fans that cross lines and give rise to the need for appropriate and strict boundaries.  But we are talking about a polite woman, standing on the right side of the barrier, asking for a damn guitar pick.

I left the show thinking that Dwight needs to look closer at who represents him once he takes himself off-stage.  Unfortunately, the lingering impression I have of his show is the sad woman, with a light pocketbook, sore feet, and buzzing ears, staring forlornly at a little piece of green plastic lying just out of reach. And the Roadie Troll looking down at her from his borrowed perch with misplaced contempt.

Sally O'Malley

Yes, This.

Classic Dwight

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: